


Acrimonious

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Bodyswap, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor Character Death, Negative Character Portrayals, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Spoilers for Season 4, Suicide, mentions of child abuse, mentions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 107,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After FBI Agent Susan Darcy is overheard telling Special-Agent-in-Charge Luther Wainwright that Patrick Jane may be working with Red John, Red John steals Jane’s body and begins to destroy the team’s lives one-by-one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Serial Killer Big Bang 2012 on Livejournal; my fic follows from 'Something Rotten in Redmund', with a spoiler from 'The Crimson Hat' thrown in. 
> 
> I want to thank the amazing loveconquerallx for being my beta, while also doing the lovely artwork for this piece. 
> 
> Each POV change within this story will be signified with a header, just to make it easier to follow and read.

**1—**

****

 

            _“I think he’s working hand-in-hand with Red John.”_

In the dim light of his study, Red John tilted his pink lips and shook his head at what Agent Susan Darcy was thinking. The small television before him, perched on a few yellowing copies of _Writer’s Digest_ and _Kitchen Ware_ , was tuned into one of the many cameras that he had placed within the California Bureau of Investigation, and although the quality wasn’t the greatest, Red John could hear the pair of idiots discussing Patrick Jane and himself.

 

Special-Agent-in-charge Luther Wainwright was really pushing things, wasn’t he? The young boss had already involved himself in his and Mr. Jane’s games more than he should have and although, his hands itched to paint a mural of his blood upon the walls of the CBI, he knew Agent Wainwright (much like Agent Darcy) was still an important key to bringing down Jane and his merry band of playthings.

 

With a press of a button on the television remote, Red John watched Patrick and his brunette bitch—Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon—stand close together near one of the CBI elevators; a soft smile across the consultant’s face, as his bitch hit him lightly in the shoulder before she stomped away. He shook his masked head at the adolescent behavior displayed between the both of them; how in the world did Patrick expect to catch the serial killer who had killed his family, if he couldn’t even keep his emotions away from his little toy?

 

Red John scowled. Teresa, even before she and Patrick had begun to work together, had always been a minor wrench in his best laid plans: the brunette woman was, of course, attractive, intelligent, and powerful. But as of late, she had become a major problem and her continuing presence distracted Mr. Jane from the larger picture: his overall quest for vengeance against the so-called “monster”.

 

Years ago, Teresa had been one of his main targets. Instead though, she had been pushed aside in favor of Kristina Frye; the only woman worse than Teresa Lisbon, in his opinion. He idly wished that he had gone ahead with his plan to kill Teresa years ago, just to drive Patrick absolutely insane.

 

_Nonetheless_ , he thought with a cold smile, _if I don’t take care of her now, she could destroy all the years of my careful planning and the mind games that both Mr. Jane and I enjoy so much._

Red John moved to click off his small television, before he could find himself in the midst of yet another soap opera occurring within the CBI elevators. Witnessing Agent Kimball Cho and his prostitute friend make out had only served to make him want to put an end to that sickening relationship, by killing them both. Even more so, the entire unit, as far as he was concerned continued to be a complete and utter failure, and all of them needed to be taught a lesson.

 

            “Sir, do you need anything?” Red John grimaced, as the pencil jar he had accidently knocked off his desk, hit the floor and shattered. The entire Serious Crimes Unit needed to learn so many lessons, yet because he was the most wanted serial killer in the state of California, he couldn’t do anything without arousing suspicions. Of course, he knew he could always tell his latest mole within the CBI to muck up the entire unit, but where was the fun in that for him? “Sir?”

 

His fingers twitched toward his knife displayed proudly on the desk; he wanted to kill the little worm that had completely disobeyed his orders of being left alone for the evening, when a thought occurred to him:

 

_Why couldn’t I destroy the Serious Crimes Unit on my own?_

Besides the _most_ obvious answer of him being Red John—the most wanted serial killer in the state of California, he couldn’t find another reason. He had been sitting idly in the shadows for way too long, allowing for his accomplices to screw up his best well-thought plans with their bumbling remarks. And the more he truly thought about it, the more his cool smile became a sinister smile. The worm, who had tried so hard to pretend he wasn’t afraid of being in front of him, took a step backwards in fright.

 

            “I’m good.” Red John answered, as he leaned across his desk to pick up the phone. “In fact, I’m just perfect.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the worm relax slightly and Red John rolled his eyes. He would kill the man later, as it only took one weak link to bring down his entire network.

 

He continued to smile. If everything worked out, which he knew it eventually would, he’d have Patrick Jane and his merry men right where he had always wanted them: out of the picture.

* * *

 

Patrick Jane smiled lightly at Teresa Lisbon, who continued to ignore him in the driver’s seat of the SUV. Without even hearing the words from her mouth, he knew she was still beyond irritated, frustrated, and angry with him for his treatment of FBI Agent Susan Darcy and Special-Agent-in-charge Luther Wainwright earlier. He waited for her to say something, because she had that look on her face, as he fiddled with the radio controls and flipped between soft jazz and country.  
  


The beginning chords of a country song came through the speakers, when Lisbon decided to speak.

 

            “Did you really have to do that?” Lisbon asked and Jane could see the tension rolling off her shoulders in waves from the corner of his vision.

 

            “Do what?” Jane tried to act innocent with a small smile; she didn’t even take her eyes off the road to glare at him. “I only changed the radio station, as I know how much you love to sing-along with the radio.”

 

            “Damn it, Jane!” Lisbon cursed. Jane glanced at her in surprise; it had been so long since she had snapped at him for something non-case related that he almost had to do a double take. Their relationship, ever since Darcy had accused him of working for Red John, hadn’t been a good one. Lisbon believed in him, he knew that much, but the entire investigation into him had also questioned her role as the Senior Agent to the Serious Crimes Unit. So, while he didn’t exactly care about his own position with the California Bureau of Investigation, he knew it was one of the few “good” things Lisbon had left. “You know what I’m talking about! Does it bother you at all that your actions may have consequences for us both?” Jane pretended to yawn behind his hand. He did care, but Darcy and Wainwright were beyond irritating; all they both continued to do was poke their noses where it didn’t belong and come between his and Lisbon’s friendship. Lisbon couldn’t stop the two, due to her precarious position with both Bertram and Wainwright, but he could and would.

 

            “They’ll get over it.” Jane said, while he waved her concern away. “They’ll both realize that me either working for Red John or being Red John is absolutely ridiculous and eventually, they’ll drop this entire accusation by apologizing to us both.” He went back to fiddling with the radio, before he spoke again. “Don’t worry about it, Lisbon. Wainwright is just upset he can’t be promoted, due to his boyish looks and mental age, while Darcy just wants to prove me wrong.” Jane threw her another grin, Lisbon grimaced. “Now, where are we going? And are we going to get something to eat soon? I’m feeling a bit famished at the moment.”

 

He saw Lisbon roll her eyes from the corner of his vision. Changing the subject had always been one thing in his favor when Lisbon brought up anything related to Red John. He wondered how much longer she would allow him to do so though, especially with the pink elephant that always seemed to be in the room between them both.

 

            “We’re going to visit the victim’s family again.” Lisbon said with an almost inaudible sigh and Jane continued to grin. Returning to the victim’s family meant one thing: he had been right about their latest case. Alice Child’s, their latest murder victim, sister hadn’t been completely truthful in her statement four days prior.

 

Until Lisbon had pulled into the driveway of the Child’s family home and had undone her seatbelt, she had managed to not say another word to him. “Don’t start anything, Jane.” Lisbon threw open her car door and stepped from the driver’s seat; he heard the gravel crunch beneath her feet, before she slammed the car door shut. Jane chuckled quietly, as he undid his seatbelt and left the passenger seat.

 

_How would not starting anything help us solve the case_? He wondered. He knew Lisbon was looking forward to a three-day vacation and unless they solved the case, nobody was going anywherefor Memorial Day weekend.

 

Lisbon stepped forward to pound on the door, when her ringing the doorbell yielded no response. The Senior Agent, he had also noticed idly, seemed more impatient (if possible) than usual, as she crossed her arms against her chest and tapped her foot against the concrete porch. “Come on.” She said in frustration, before she rang the doorbell again.

 

Jane said nothing to her, as he moved to one of the many closed windows and pressed his nose against the glass to see if he could help Lisbon out. The seemingly heavy yellow curtain blocked nearly all of his vision, except for the smallest sliver of a pale woman, who had her back turned to the window. “Lisbon!” He called without looking away from the sight before him. “Come here!”

 

            “This better not be yet another spider web, Jane.” Lisbon stated; she moved closer and took Jane’s spot against the outer window pane. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. Instead, she slowly went to retrieve her weapon from its holster and she stepped away from the window.  “Stay back,” was all the warning he received, before she lifted her leg and kicked open the white door. “CBI!”

 

Jane followed behind her into the house, only to find Amy Child, the victim’s sister, pointing a gun at her own head. The brunette woman was visibly distressed; her hand holding the gun trembled, one sleeve of her shirt had been pushed to the crook of her elbow and her green eyes were wide. He knew if Lisbon would just give him the chance, he could probably talk the woman from taking her own life.

 

            “Put the gun down, Amy.” Lisbon ordered. Amy shook her head; tears streamed down her pale black and blue splotched cheeks, which Jane realized hadn’t been there the other day. “Amy, you don’t have to do this…”

 

            “Yes, I do!” Amy replied, frantically and Jane quickly glanced around the room. Amy, while distressed, didn’t sound distressed enough to take her own life without reason. From the way her legs continued to tremble, Jane had a feeling that she didn’t want to kill herself any more than they did.  “I killed my own sister and I deserve to pay for my sins.” Her eyes focused on a point behind his shoulder. Jane recalled from his memory that Amy didn’t believe in the idea of religion, which had immediately made her the black sheep of the family. “I’m sorry.” Before Lisbon could manage to leap into action, Amy moved the gun from against her temple to beneath her chin and pulled the trigger. 

 

Jane barely had time to blink, before the bullet shot from the gun and through Amy’s chin. In a matter of seconds, the bullet caused a fury of brain matter, blood, and tissue to explode everywhere: on the heavy yellow curtains, the white patterned ceiling, the red carpet beneath their feet, and had almost come too close for comfort, inches from his feet. Amy’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor and Jane forced his eyes away. He barely heard Lisbon talking on her cellphone, as he turned to avoid looking at the mangled corpse and see if he could find exactly what Amy had looked at the moments prior to her death.

 

It took him a few seconds to pinpoint the video camera attached above the front door; its red light blinking back at them in response.

 

            “Jane?” Jane heard Lisbon ask and he turned back to stare at her. “You okay?” He nodded; the mangled bodies of his wife and child had been so much worse to see. “I called it in.” Jane had figured that much, as he stepped closer to her and took the moment to appreciate how she smelled, with her shoulder pressed up against his: a light mixture of a vanilla and cinnamon fragrance, which managed to somewhat cancel out the lingering odor of gunfire and cigarette smoke from the home, before he spoke again.

 

            “Amy didn’t kill herself.” Jane told her, lowly. Lisbon turned her head slightly to stare at him in moot surprise. “She did kill herself, but she didn’t.” She continued to eye him and he sighed. It was a beyond complicated situation. “This was staged.” He spoke again, although he knew she was readying herself to respond. “Amy stared at the camera before she pulled the trigger. Somebody forced her into pulling the trigger.” Lisbon took a step back from him and he frowned at the loss of contact. “If you expect me to find the equipment, I have no idea…”

 

            “Shut up, Jane.” Lisbon ordered. Jane closed his mouth without further comment. He watched Lisbon glance around the foyer, until she started toward the staircase near Amy’s body. He followed close behind her again, and they both climbed the stairs; her, two steps at a time without hesitation and him, at a much slower pace. On the white walls along the stairwell, he noticed the countless pictures of Amy and Alice (the victim) growing up together; vacations to Disneyland, family holidays, awkward school pictures, and various awards that both girls had been given throughout the years. Jane knew the acting and singing accomplishments belonged to Alice, without even seeing her name printed across them, because even in her death; the twenty-year-old had apparently been quite the drama queen. The various other academic achievements however, belonged to Amy.

 

Jane opened his mouth to address Lisbon, when he heard gunshots and found that the brunette had already gone ahead of him.

 

            “Is leaving me behind your idea of revenge, Lisbon?” Jane asked her, as he stepped into the bedroom at the very end of the long hall to find Lisbon handcuffing one of the two individuals, who had apparently thought escaping out a two-story house window without traction would be a good idea. Lisbon said nothing as she seized both Tylor and Frank Gibbons, the relatives they had both met on their first visit to the Child’s home, by their arms and hauled them both from the room littered with surveillance equipment.

 

Jane watched Lisbon lead them both out of the house and into the sunshine through the small black and white monitor, a small frown across his face.

 

Each of the signs within the case had pointed them toward the parents, not the mother’s relatives, which made Jane wonder if they had missed something all together. 

* * *

 

            “Mr. Jane?” Jane glanced up from his turquoise tea cup to stare at the blonde-haired and tanned boyfriend of Alice Child, before he shifted slightly. Lisbon had long interrogated Tylor and Frank Gibbons, who had both confessed to the murders of their female cousins, because their grandparents had decided to give the females their shares of a sizeable fortune.

 

            “Yes.” Jane said and the young adult stuffed his hands into his pocket nervously; Jane waited for him to speak, while he swirled his tea at the island playfully.

 

            “I wanted to thank you for catching Al’s killer.” Jonathan Collins replied. Jane waved the thank you away with his free hand; it was their job after all, as Lisbon often said. “It means a lot to Al’s family and me.”

 

            “It was no problem, Jon.” Jane answered. He didn’t glance up from his teacup. “Alice’s killers were driven by greed, although I am sure they won’t be getting much now.” Jonathan chuckled lightly, before he stopped and bowed his head in shame. Jane still didn’t glance up. “It’s okay to laugh, so you know. Laughter is the best medicine.” He glanced up slightly and shot the teen a weak smile; it hadn’t been Jon’s fault that Alice or Amy had been murdered, and the teen needed to realize that to get on with his life.

 

            “The family wanted to thank you themselves, but the security is adamant about only two people at a time.” Jonathan answered. “So, they decided to send me and a thank you note from Al’s Uncle.” Jane watched as the teenager withdrew a small red envelope from his pocket and held it out. He took it with a slight nod. “Al’s Uncle suggested you don’t open that here.” Jane eyed the red envelope in his fingers. What was so special about a thank you letter, besides it being from the side of the family that had driven one of their own to suicide? Jonathan chuckled again. “It’s nothing illegal. Alice’s Uncle Frew wouldn’t do that. He just said something about Agent Lisbon and how she couldn’t begin to appreciate something like that.” Jane raised his eyebrows and Jonathan shrugged. “That’s Uncle Frew for you, though and from what Alice said, Uncle Frew doted on Amy.”

 

            “I’ll open this later then.” Jane stated, before he moved to hastily stuff the envelope away within the hidden pocket of his jacket. Jonathan gave him a weak smile and then left him to his tea in silence. Lisbon found him there moments later. “I’m surprised you’re still here, Lisbon. You closed your case, you’ve probably finished enough paperwork to wake the dead, and almost everybody has left to take advantage of the holiday weekend.” Rigsby had left earlier to head home to his girlfriend and new son, Van Pelt had left after two rounds of solitaire on her computer, and Cho had left after Summer had sprung him with the promise of a “hot” date. Jane had almost asked him what she had meant just to tease him, but the agent hadn’t seemed like he wanted any questions as he gathered all of his items in a rush.

 

            “We need to talk about Red John, Jane.” Lisbon muttered and Jane eyed her. She seemed as if she wanted to be anywhere but there with him at the present moment and he honestly couldn’t blame her.

 

            “What about him?”

 

            “Agent Darcy is in my office right now.” Lisbon spoke and Jane frowned. Did the FBI agent not take holidays or ever stop butting her nose into their business? He thought he had put an end to her “being Red John” theory by promising to take a lie detector test to prove his innocence. “She wants to talk to us.”

 

Jane sipped at his tea, gave the idea a moment of thought, before he slowly shook his head. “Hm. I don’t think so.” Jane watched Lisbon cross her arms against her chest in great amusement. The fact that the slender agent thought she could intimidate him into speaking to Susan Darcy was laughable. “I’m sure whatever she has to say can wait, until we’re both well-rested come Tuesday morning.”

 

            “You’re talking to her,” Lisbon ordered, “even if I have to haul your ass in there myself.” She drew herself to her full height and Jane shook his head; it wasn’t going to happen.

 

            “I said all I needed to say to her yesterday morning.” Jane replied with a shrug. “If Susan thinks we should talk, tell her to give me a call. I’m sure she has my number.” Jane stepped away from Lisbon to rinse his teacup out and put it back into the cabinet, before he started to walk past Lisbon.

 

She halted him with her hand. “I’m not kidding, Jane.” Lisbon said and Jane rolled his eyes. He didn’t understand the point of this. Lisbon knew he wasn’t going to give Darcy any more information. “Do this for me.” He almost thought about telling her no again, but their conversation from earlier that afternoon reminded him that Lisbon did, in fact, need her job.

 

            “Fine.” Jane reluctantly gave and Lisbon let his arm go.

 

            “Thank you.” Lisbon stated, softly before she stepped past him and he followed her to find Darcy sitting on Lisbon’s white couch.

 

            “Mr. Jane, Agent Lisbon.” Darcy greeted them both. Jane nodded politely from his spot against the doorway, as Lisbon moved to sit behind her desk. “I don’t think this will take us too long. I just wanted to see if Mr. Jane was still willing to take that lie detector test.” Jane rolled his eyes again. He doubted his answer to her proposal would have changed in the past twenty-eight hours, but apparently Darcy didn’t trust him enough to take his word at face value.

 

            “I am, Susan.” Jane replied and Darcy smiled. “I just haven’t had the time to find myself strapped to tiny wires, answering questions about what I did last night and if I killed over a dozen women with a kitchen knife.” He sent her a bright smile, while she and Lisbon grimaced. “But, I’ll get around to it when I remember exactly where I put my kitchen knife and rubber gloves.” Although he was extremely amused with his own answer, Lisbon wasn’t. Darcy seemed to have gotten his jab, as she said nothing in response. “Obviously, I’m joking. I planned on taking the test…” Lisbon narrowed her eyes on him. “…right now.” He just didn’t want Lisbon angry with him come Tuesday morning.

 

            “Good.” Darcy responded and she stood from the couch. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Jane. I’d love to accompany you.” He did mind. Darcy had used Lisbon to gang up on him into taking the test, when they both had better things to do (he had an envelope to open, Lisbon had a weekend full of ice cream and time away from him), but at Lisbon’s continued glare from behind her desk, he smiled sweetly at Darcy.

 

            “Not at all, Agent Darcy.” He said, as he made a sweeping motion with his hand and she stepped through the doorway, with him at her heels. 

* * *

 

            “How did it go?” Lisbon asked him the moment he stepped back into her office and collapsed onto her couch. “Did you pass?”

 

            “If you’re asking whether or not I’m Red John, let your fears be soothed that Darcy found no traces of deception.” Jane answered her with his eyes closed. “It seems I will forever be stuck here with you, until Agent Darcy finds another way to accuse me or you tire of me.” He didn’t have to open his eyes to know that Lisbon was probably staring at him, trying to hide her smile at his announcement, but he did so anyway. “I’m surprised to see you’re still here, Lisbon.” Her slight smile turned into a grimace.

 

            “Wainwright wanted to know the emotional state we found Amy Child in.” Lisbon explained, while she glanced back down at whatever form she had to fill out. “He believes her family might decide to sue the CBI for emotional suffering.” Jane glanced at her in amusement; people would try anything to get money, even if they had to exploit their daughter’s suicide to do so.

 

            “They’ll drop the possible lawsuit.” Jane informed her and Lisbon raised her eyebrows in response. “A family of fools would not go as far to drag their own issues through the mud. Amy was distressed, yes, but her family continuously belittled her and forced her into taking an extremely dark path.” Lisbon continued to stare at him as he spoke. “If the courts ever became aware of that, the CBI would be making money and we could afford some better tea.”

 

            “Because better tea is in the annual budget for the CBI, right?” Lisbon asked, teasingly and Jane nodded; it should have been anyway. “Just because you say a lawsuit isn’t going to happen, doesn’t mean one won’t.” He had never been wrong in the past about avoiding lawsuits, especially when he had tweaked that rich business man on the nose years ago. With the shake of the head, he wondered if Lisbon would ever learn that he was always right. “Jane?” Her voice interrupted his musings and he glanced at her again.

 

            “Hm, Lisbon?”

 

            “I asked if you were all right after seeing…” She trailed off and he nodded; she wanted to know if he needed to visit the department psychologist, even though they both knew he’d never go.

 

            “I’m fine, really.” Jane said. “Her death, although tragic, taught me that I should learn to love life and not trust my outlying family members.” He threw her a small smile again, which she answered with another grimace.

 

            “Jane!” Lisbon chided and he waited for her lecture to come. “If any of the family members heard you say that, you…”

 

            “Do you see anybody else around?” Jane asked, as he made a quick sweep of the office with his eyes only to find himself and Lisbon in the tiny space. “We’ll be fine.”

 

            “Have some decorum, will you?” Lisbon replied.

 

Jane nearly scoffed. “I have no respect for that family, whether they’ve lost both daughters or not.” Lisbon should have known he wasn’t going to treat the family with kid gloves, especially after having learned how the family treated one of their own. “Jon Collins came into thank me on behalf of the entire family for solving Alice’s death, not for figuring out their eldest daughter hadn’t been suicidal.”

 

            “Each person copes differently with loss.” Lisbon explained, softly. Jane rolled his eyes. “Some people take to coping with one death at a time and…”

 

            “Suing the establishment, who supposedly brought your family peace, is coping?” Jane asked, dryly. Lisbon nodded with a soft frown. “It’s utter ridiculousness and idle pettiness.”

 

            “I know, Jane.” Lisbon agreed. “However, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t make them mourn the loss of their daughter and I can’t make them pay for how they treated her.”

 

            “What’s the point of our jobs, then?” Jane threw back. He didn’t doubt that she cared; he just doubted the entire justice system once again. “We can’t save people alive, can’t save people dead, and the paycheck is pretty lousy.” Lisbon pursed her lips. Jane knew it wasn’t right taking his frustrations toward everything; the case, Red John, Darcy and Wainwright, out on her, but it didn’t mean he was going to stop as he continued on. “If they sue the CBI, sue them right back for something else. How about for: ‘wasting our time’?”

 

            “That’s not how it works.” Lisbon responded, with her lips still pursed. “And I’m sorry you feel that way, Jane, but we’re doing our best.”

 

            “Our best isn’t good enough.” Jane retorted; if he hadn’t been watching the senior agent somewhat closely, he would have never noticed her flinch in response to his remark. “If you can’t even stop someone from killing themselves, why do you continue to…?”

 

            “Stop it.” Lisbon interrupted, quietly. “Just stop it.” In the dim light from her office, the woman suddenly looked more exhausted than usual and he felt somewhat horrible. Lisbon didn’t deserve any of the treatment she received, but as he continued to eye her in contempt, he realized that she would never understand how meaningless their jobs were some days. “Whatever you’re saying is because you’re clearly traumatized…” Her hand went for her desk phone, when he spoke again.

 

            “I’m not traumatized, Lisbon.” Jane said. “I’m merely asking why we can’t do anything but help a person until after they’re dead.”

 

Lisbon dropped her hand from the phone to stare at him. “It’s our job.” Of course, she believed that.

 

            “You just go on believing that, Lisbon.” Jane told her, before he stood from her white couch and stared down at her. “Have a good three day vacation. I’ll see you Tuesday morning.” Jane didn’t wait for her to say anything else, as he hurried out of her office and retreated up into the safety of his moonlit attic.

 

He took a deep breath, before he kicked his foot out at the box underneath the three pane window, which allowed for moonlight to spill into the cluttered room. Jane hadn’t meant to upset the woman or worry her, but the attitudes of the CBI continuously bothered him. Wainwright could have done something about the family when Lisbon had raised her concerns days ago, but no. The Special-Agent-in-charge had ignored her concerns by spending all his spare time poking his nose where it didn’t belong, and if Jane hadn’t truly cared about Lisbon, he would have left the CBI years ago.

 

Jane stuck his hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to pull out his cellphone and call Lisbon to apologize, when he felt the envelope brush against his fingers.

 

Lisbon briefly forgotten, he pulled the envelope out and stared down at it. Did he want to open it? The entire Child’s family didn’t deserve the chance to say thank you, let alone write it down in a card. However, Jon had said that the Uncle doted on Amy, which made him more inclined to open the envelope. Carefully, he opened the flap on the red envelope and pulled out a single piece of white paper. It wasn’t a card; it was somebody’s address.

 

He stared down at it, unblinkingly. What had the Child’s family given him? The black type lettering shimmered beneath the moonlight and it brought him back to a letter he had received from Red John seven years ago, taped to the door of the master bedroom to his home.

 

The address, a 9034 Ditch Avenue, wasn’t a place he was familiar with. However, judging from the fact that the town wasn’t labeled as Sacramento meant wherever this avenue was, was going to take him far from Sacramento.

 

Jane shook his head and allowed for the slip of paper to fall from his grasp. Running off to random addresses without cause didn’t sound like a good idea, especially as the gun he had used to kill Carter was still in evidence and Lisbon sure as hell wouldn’t lend him her gun. He smiled; he could just imagine Lisbon’s reaction to that request.

 

Still with a smile on his face, he glanced down at the white slip of paper on the floor only to find something other than the address written in black ink:

 

Red John’s smiley face, drawn crudely in red ink, stared up at him from below.  


	2. Chapter 2

**2—**

 

The slightly wet gravel beneath Jane’s feet squelched, as he quietly shut the door to his beloved vehicle and stared up at the large and ominous-looking house that remained in the distance.  Sinister trees bled into the darkening sky and shrouded the property into eerie obscurity, even though the sky was periodically dotted with twinkling stars and the bright portion of May’s moon. The house being a two-hour drive from Sacramento made the location, in his opinion, the perfect place for a serial killer (if Red John was there, of course) to hide away.

 

Jane briefly ran his hands down his pants before he stepped forward. His thoughts buzzed with the realization that he was moments away from meeting the man (or woman), who had taken everything away from him years ago. Somewhat nervously, he glanced around the small enclosure. He hadn’t told Lisbon (or anybody else) where he was going, but in the past, it had never usually mattered—someone always had an inkling of where he was and he just had to wait for them to show up. After a few steps forward though, he determined that he was completely on his own and his palms began to sweat.

 

He had never been so close to Red John before and the feeling was both exhilarating and nerve wracking, especially as he approached the old two-story home with shaky steps and with the knowledge that after Red John was dead, there would be no turning back. He’d go prison and Lisbon would hate him for a while, but he knew she would eventually understand _why_ he had to do this. Jane slowly placed one of his hands to the gritty brass door knob and turned it, the door was unlocked and it opened just enough for him to slip his entire body through the doorway and into the house.

 

Red John’s hideout, he noticed with his inquisitive eyes, was extremely well lit. Waxy, half-melted scarlet candles were mounted on almost every available wall surface and wooden table in the foyer. The gossamer spider webs casted heavy shadows on the peeling red walls, which made Jane shudder in disgust. Was it actually red paint on the walls or had Red John used blood from his victims to decorate the interior? Whatever the psychopath had used, Jane quickly decided, he didn’t want to know. The walls were bare, which hinted to Jane that Red John didn’t actually live in the hideaway; he had probably only used the spacious home to conduct his business doings in.

 

South of the foyer held a long hallway with a set of double doors at the far end, but an old, spiraling wooden staircase sat off to one side of the room. Jane wondered if Red John had adjourned upstairs for the evening and if he shouldn’t check the up there first, when he heard a set of clambering footsteps coming down the stairs. Carefully, he crouched down and stilled his breathing to hide beneath one of the many end tables within the room. He wanted the element of surprise to be in his favor, for once.

 

            “…we promised him we’d take care of it, Andrews.” The sycophant’s voice didn’t sound familiar, but that didn’t matter to him. Jane wanted to know where Red John was hiding, as he wasn’t daft enough to rush into wherever the serial killer was without a solid plan. Killing Red John, Jane knew, would take more than just walking up to the psychopath and stabbing him in the chest.

 

            “I know.” The second sycophant hastily interrupted from a distance. Jane wondered if the hushed voices echoed into wherever Red John was resting, considering that both individuals refused to leave the stairwell. “If we step into the dining hall without something in our hands, he’ll execute us both. Won’t he?” A small triumphant smile danced across Jane’s lips; the sycophants’ obviously weren’t too worried about their loose lips within the stairwell or about a possible execution on their “master”, especially as one had just given up the location to Red John. He heard their heavy footsteps on the stairs again and he continued to listen, until he heard the sound of something being slammed shut. Jane removed himself from beneath the end table with a shake of his head.

 

Red John was going to die and _nobody_ , not even Lisbon, would be able to stop him from sinking a blade into the monster’s chest.

 

Jane stepped toward the double doors at the end of the long hallway, which he had assumed was the location the infamous dining room, when he felt someone grab both of his arms from behind. He thrashed against the strong grasp and his legs tried to lash out at whoever had him, but his movement did nothing to free him.

 

            “Well,” Jane heard the first sycophant’s voice hiss into his ear, which sent a shiver of dread down his spine, “what do we have here?” Jane furrowed his brows together. Both sycophants had gone upstairs, hadn’t they? He had clearly heard their loud footsteps upon the staircase and the slamming of a door, and he knew the sounds hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. “You might think all of Red John friends to be dense, but we are not. We knew the front door wasn’t open ten minutes ago, Mr. Jane.” He cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he thought to close the damned door behind him? If it hadn’t been for that one mistake, he doubted he would have been apprehended. “It doesn’t matter though, honestly. Red John has been expecting you,” horror lined his stomach. Red John had been expecting him? How had the serial killer even known that he was going to accept the invitation in the first place? Jane hadn’t run into anybody on his way out of the CBI, but that didn’t mean that somebody hadn’t been lingering in the shadows. Moles of Red John, after all, weren’t exactly uncommon within the halls of the CBI anymore. If the sick bastard had been waiting for and expecting him all evening, it signaled that the killer had something truly heinous up his sleeve. Jane almost wished that he had told Lisbon, because even though he wasn’t afraid of meeting the Grim Reaper, he was afraid of not being able to enact his final revenge against Red John. His thoughts were interrupted by the sycophant, “so, let’s not keep him waiting.”

 

The second sycophant shoved Jane forward and down the hallway, while his body continued to twist and jerk around in the hope that his captor would somehow lose his hold. Jane tried to lash out at his captor again, until he stood before the double doors and realized that he had absolutely no way out. “He’s enthusiastic for you to finally meet him, so don’t get any silly ideas. I would really hate for your blood to stain the interior of the room too.” He felt a fist slam into the side of his head, as if it would knock all of the silly ideas out of his head, which made him cry out in alarm.

 

Through his blurry vision, Jane watched the sycophant pound his fist against the double door; no tattoos displayed on his lean wrist, no signifying rings to identify him with, absolutely nothing but pale skin to eye, before he heard a distinct voice call out, “come in!” Slowly, the doors opened and Jane was shoved forward onto the hardwood floor.

 

            “Stand up.” The sycophant ordered. Jane noticed that his voice was heavy with a sneer. Before Jane could bring himself to stand firmly on his feet, he felt a foot slam into his side. He cried out at the sudden burst of pain and collapsed back onto the floor with a groan. “Red John expects you to greet him while standing, Mr. Jane, not while lying on your back. You need to get up.” Jane struggled to get back on his feet, when he felt the foot connect with his side again. “He deserves the upmost amount of respect, you vile piece of…” 

 

            “Andrews, you have done more than enough.” Jane heard the distinct yet soft voice from somewhere within the room speak and his stomach knotted in apprehension; for that distinct yet soft (and probably software changed) voice, he knew without reasonable doubt, belonged to the actual Red John. His vision swam and his head pounded, as he tried to follow the words from the serial killer. “I’m sure Mr. Jane would be able to stand and face me, if he didn’t have a foot colliding into his ribs every five seconds.” The thought of agreeing with a coldblooded killer sent shivers down his spine, though Jane couldn’t help but silently agree with him. “I will let you catch your breath, Mr. Jane. I am positive that my friend did not intend to hurt you. Did you, Andrews?”

 

            “I didn’t, sir.” Andrews responded and Jane knew the man was lying, as Andrews’ foot tapped against his leg. Red John said nothing for a moment, while Jane steadied himself on his feet and tried to ignore the pain in his ribs.

 

            “I don’t know whether you’re exceptionally intelligent or if you’re just plain idiotic, Mr. Jane.” Red John brought attention back to himself, before he motioned for Jane to join him at the elongated and dark wood dining room table. Jane remained quiet, as he was roughly pushed forward and then backwards into an archaic chair at the base of the table by Andrews, who continued to pin him to the offending object. He tried to writhe his way free, but it was to no avail. “It’s a special three day weekend off for you and your co-workers. If I killed you, Mr. Jane, you wouldn’t be found until Tuesday morning.” Red John’s dark eyes pierced him from the head of the table and he shuddered again; the man was absolutely soulless. “At the latest.”

 

            “You’re not going to kill me.” Jane responded while he kept the fear from his voice. His bluish-green eyes focused on the dark masked face of the man, who had slaughtered his wife and child without mercy. The same man, he had sworn years ago to Lisbon that he would one day cut open before watching him die slowly. He watched Red John shift in his chair. “You…”

 

            “You will kill me first with the knife that’s in your pocket?” Red John interrupted, coyly. Jane blinked in surprise. He hadn’t looked down at his pocket, moved his hand toward the knife, or shown his cards by saying that he had a knife in his pocket. Jane had known Red John wasn’t the average criminal; the man was an intelligent, methodical, and cruel monster of meticulous planning and death. “You’re not the only person who has ever studied nonverbal communication, Mr. Jane.”

 

            “I never said I was.” Jane retorted. Red John said nothing in return and Jane continued. “I just thought you should know that the hospitality around here is lacking and your so-called friends have appalling manners.” Jane tried to jerk away from the hold again. Red John chuckled. “You obviously don’t pick your brainwashed friends for their well-thought conversational skills or personal hygiene habits.”

 

            “You shouldn’t take your treatment too personal, Mr. Jane.” Red John soothed and Jane flinched. “My brainwashed friends, as you so affectionately label them, do not appreciate unannounced visits.” Jane shook his head in irritation. Red John had gotten Jon Collins to give the address and if the serial killer had thought for one moment that he wouldn’t accept the chance to seek vengeance, the killer was damn near insane. He watched Red John lean forward in his chair, before the killer perched his elbow on the table steadily and placed his fist under his chin. “I’m honestly surprised you came here alone. I was always under the vague impression that Agent Lisbon was your personal handler, as she knows more about you than anyone else does.” Was Red John trying to imply something beyond a friendship for himself and Lisbon? Jane tried to shrug off Red John’s comment and surprise with a small grimace.

 

            “Lisbon didn’t need to know about this.” Jane tried to not remember that his last conversation with Lisbon had been a fight over Red John and Darcy again, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that _you just go on believing that, Lisbon_ would be one of the last things he would ever say to her. Red John glanced at Jane with a questioning stare in the dim candlelight from atop the table.

 

“Agent Lisbon doesn’t know you’re here, does she?” Red John tittered with a soft smile and Jane made no movement to respond. Deniability had always been Lisbon’s (and his) best friend and if he had killed Red John off her watch; she could keep her beloved job and he would be able to flee without much persecution. Outside of Lisbon, he knew nobody at the CBI or FBI would truly miss his presence. “I doubt you even thought to tell anybody, really.” Jane eyed Red John. “This brings me back to our first point, Mr. Jane. Either you’re exceptionally intelligent or you’re just plain idiotic.”

 

“I assumed that you had wanted me to come alone,” Jane manipulated the truth, “but, I told Lisbon to wait for me outside.” Red John continued to eye him, an easy smile playing across his pink lips.

 

“Oh, I did.” Red John stated, softly after a few moments of silence. “However, you’re lying to me about Agent Lisbon’s presence and I _don’t_ appreciate liars, Mr. Jane.” Jane masked his expression into one of indifference, although he felt his blood run cold within his veins. How had Red John been able to tell he was lying? Lisbon had only gotten that good after years of them both working together. Jane knew logically that Red John should have never been able to tell. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Is Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon with you, Mr. Jane?”

           

Jane met the killer’s eyes. “Yes.” He would continue to lie to save his (and Lisbon’s) life. Even if Lisbon had no idea of where he was, Jane knew that Red John would never check the credibility of his story; it would have been too dangerous for the serial killer to step outside his own hideout, especially if he had been telling the truth. Jane watched Red John give a brisk nod, before he felt a hand smack hard against his face without warning and he flinched at the pain. His cheek stung from the brute force the hand had displayed across his face, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off of Red John.

 

Red John tilted his lips into a curved smile and Jane had a strange feeling that he was missing something awfully important, as the killer spoke again. “I don’t know why you’re trying to protect Agent Lisbon, Mr. Jane. You know she isn’t here and I certainly know she isn’t here. Who exactly do you think you are trying to play against? Agent Wainwright? Agent Van Pelt?” Jane continued to stare at Red John, who had leaned back in his chair and had crossed his arms against his chest. “You’re not in the minor leagues anymore, Mr. Jane. I did my research of where exactly Agent Lisbon was, as soon as I was informed that you were here.” Jane felt his heart skip a beat within his chest. Red John knew exactly where Lisbon was? Had he kidnapped her? Red John shook his head, as if the killer knew what he was thinking. “Agent Lisbon is safe at home, Mr. Jane. She left her office after you two fought and she is now currently sitting at home, drowning her sorrows in a bottle of tequila.” Jane blinked. “I have to say though; the way your Agent Lisbon went through her first bottle makes me wonder if she isn’t a degenerate alcoholic.” Red John laughed, while Jane tensed. Lisbon wasn’t an alcoholic or degenerate! Rage flew through him at Red John’s words and he tried to lunge at the serial killer, who merely seemed amused at his behavior. “Of course, if I were around _you_ all of the time; I’d drink from the bottle too.”

 

            “Do they even have alcohol in Hell?” Jane quipped with a smirk. It probably wasn’t a good idea to taunt a serial killer, but the killer hadn’t given him a choice. Jane couldn’t kill him, let alone move, and his words were the only buffer he had left. Red John chuckled in response.

 

            “You and I both know there is no Hell, Mr. Jane.” Red John said, after he had calmed down. “However, absinthe would be the Devil’s choice of liqueur.” Jane said nothing, as Red John continued on. “I would like to make an unusual request, but would you allow for us to speak candidly to one another?”

 

            “I don’t know, can we?” Jane asked. Red John chuckled again. “You’ve already had somebody slap me across the face; we might as well already be married.” Red John stood slowly from his chair, and turned to face one of the various windows built along the dining room wall.

 

            “I can tell that you’re trying to figure out why I’ve invited you here.” Red John spoke and Jane almost rolled his eyes; tactful or not, the idea that he wouldn’t be trying to figure it out was absolutely asinine. Red John kept his back to him, as he continued on. “I don’t think it would come to much surprise to you that I was Amy’s Uncle Frew.” He suddenly didn’t feel that bad about the girl’s passing, especially if it kept her away from such a monster. “I wanted the girl to join me, but clearly her family had other ideas.” Jane could hear the grimace in his voice. “I hadn’t planned on having her sister killed, but I needed the CBI involved.” The unspoken implication that Red John had needed him on the case didn’t go misunderstood between them both. “Just because I don’t leave a smiley face behind, Mr. Jane, it doesn’t mean I’m not the one pulling the strings.”

 

Thinking back, Jane should have known something was way off with the case. Alice’s lifeless body had been found in her single dorm room, after the Resident Advisor had stepped into the room to do a room check. In Alice’s bloodstream, there had been enough poison to kill a horse and yet, it had been a suspected suicide at first. Amy, who apparently called her sister every three days, had been the one to clue them into the not so possible homicide, and like a fool, he had completely missed all the common signs of a budding psychopath: the shallow emotions, the lack of guilt (up until the end, where he had a feeling she had also been drugged to take her own life), the seamless manipulations, and the countless lies that she had told them both.

 

In his mind, Amy had been painted the victim of abuse, when in fact; she had been so far off from being a victim.

 

            “I taught my niece well, Mr. Jane.” Red John said. “It’s really a shame that I won’t be able to groom her anymore.” Jane tried to keep from making a face and gagging. Psychopath or not, Amy hadn’t deserved being used by somebody she had implicitly trusted. “I guess you win some and you lose some though, right?” Red John turned around to lean his back against one of the covered windows with a half-lidded smile and Jane tensed. Timothy Carter, just before he had been murdered, had said the same words to Lisbon over O’Laughlin. “I’m sure you know how the saying goes though.” Jane struggled against the hold again, even though it was still completely pointless. “You’re not going to escape, Mr. Jane. You’ve come to my humble abode upon my invite, and allowing you to leave without hearing my plan would be dreadfully awful and rude of me.” The sycophant holding tight onto him snickered, which only served to fill him with more dread. What was Red John planning for him? This entire meeting was way too staged just to have a basic conversation, before turning him loose. Jane continued to stare Red John down, as the man spoke again. “I’m sure you remember Rebecca?” 

 

Jane nearly scoffed, “how could I forget her, you killed her.” Of course, the woman had shot and killed four men in order to help her “master” Red John stay untouched. “Poison, if I seem to remember correctly.”

 

            “I didn’t want to kill her, Mr. Jane.” Red John explained with a frown. “I cared deeply for Rebecca and I was sad to see her go. She made me feel loved.” Jane pulled a face; how anybody could love such a monster was beyond him.

 

            “I’m sure she did.” Jane responded, as Red John chuckled again. He had absolutely no doubts that the serial killer had outstanding persuasion skills, but how anybody could be that ignorant, he had no idea. Red John was a cold-blooded killer and if tigers couldn’t change their stripes, Red John wasn’t about to change his tune. Rebecca had been naïve enough to believe that the man was “changing the world” with his ideas of love and enlightenment, when in fact, the man was trying to depopulate it via his knife. “What did you promise her, by the way?” Red John stilled and Jane ignored the almost Lisbon-like voice in his head, telling him that taunting a serial killer wasn’t a good idea. “Cheap sex?” He almost wasn’t too surprised when he was slapped across the face again.

 

            “You always have amused me, Patrick.” Red John stated with a slight smile. “It’s too bad that you will forever cease to amuse me in about three hours.” Jane stared at the masked man in veiled confusion; three hours from then, would have made it midnight and he knew Red John killed at all hours of the night. Why in the world would the man wait until midnight to end his life, especially if he knew he was lying about Lisbon? “I’m not killing you, Mr. Jane. I’m merely…” Red John paused. Jane wondered if he was trying to find the right words, as the man brought his hand to his chin. “…borrowing your body for an indefinite amount of time.”

 

            “You’re kidnapping me?” Jane asked in amusement. Kidnapping had never been Red John’s game. Kidnapping had always seemed like the easy way out, and Jane had an idea that Red John would not take too kindly to being called a coward. Red John continued to smile. “Eventually, somebody will find me. You’re human; you make mistakes too. Obviously.” Red John shook his head and Jane almost reminded him of Carter and Janet Peaks, but he kept his mouth shut.

 

            “It shouldn’t have been this simple, Mr. Jane.” Red John spoke. Jane wondered what was so simple. The serial killer took a brief pause, which seemed more like a dramatic pause to him. “Rebecca once commented that I had been infiltrating the CBI all wrong. I had waved her minor concerns off and thinking back on it,” he continued on, “she was right.” Red John gained a wistful look about him and Jane turned his head away. He didn’t want to know what the man was thinking. “I realized all of this, after I heard Agents Darcy and Wainwright talking about you and me.” Jane knew what he had heard with a sinking revelation; Red John had probably heard Darcy telling Wainwright her suspicions about him being Red John, and the killer was now going to use that to his advantage. Red John’s lips curled into a smile again and Jane tried to keep his expression blank, even though he worried slightly over whatever Red John had planned for him.

 

            “Lisbon is smart.” Lisbon had been the only person who knew him, and knew what he was capable of. Jane had a strong feeling that she would never believe him to be Red John, unless she had numerous amounts of damning proof. Red John took a step closer. “She knows I’m not you.” Fighting or not, he knew Lisbon had always thought the best of him and if she had ever thought him to be Red John, she had been a much better liar than he had ever given her credit for.

 

“I know.” Red John stated softly. Jane let out a shaky breath; just because he didn’t fear dying, didn’t mean he actually wanted to die.

 

_Not before killing Red John anyway_ , Jane silently added with a grimace.

 

He watched Red John take a small step closer to him and Jane knew he couldn’t stab Red John, even if his “friends” had loosened their hold on his arms. Red John, as much as Jane hated to quietly admit it, had all of the power and the advantage here. “Of course, that’ll change once she meets the new you.” Jane was confused again. Red John’s use of “new you” obviously implied something horrible was afoot and he could only hope it wasn’t memory loss related, especially as he doubted the team could handle that again. “After all, you’ve just witnessed something terrible and a psychotic break in your mental state wouldn’t be terribly too unexpected.” Red John flashed him a twisted smile, which had Jane struggling against his hold again. Lisbon wouldn’t believe that something like Amy’s suicide would be just enough to cause a psychotic break; she’d be smart enough to know that something else was very much involved. If he did go crazy, Lisbon would investigate and eventually, she would discover Red John to be behind it. “Andrews, Thomas!” Red John moved to address his dumber-than-bricks sycophants, who grunted in response. “Take Mr. Jane away and prep him for the procedure.” Jane felt the sycophant pull him from the chair and drag him backwards, but he struggled against the action. He needed to know what procedure!

 

“Procedure?” Jane voiced, as Red John’s “friends” dragged him toward the doorway of the room. Red John stilled the two with the lift of his hand, before the man glanced at him. “What procedure?”

 

“How truly rude of me,” Red John replied, “I suppose you should know that the indefinite borrowing of your body allows me for me to become permanently you.” Jane furrowed his brows, as the serial killer continued to laugh. “Body swapping isn’t just for science fiction fantasies anymore, Mr. Jane, it’s for us also.” Before Jane had a chance to say anything further, both of the men already had him out of the room and down the candlelit hallway.

 

All-knowing and haunting, Red John’s laughter trailed after him.

* * *

Jane felt one of the men tighten a pair of leather straps around his wrists, as he tried to arch his back away from the metal table that he had been thrown onto. The sycophant who had kicked him earlier, Andrews, merely grinned down at him as he tightened the leather strap across his abdomen. He grunted at the tight pressure against his sore ribs; his heart pounding within his chest and his mouth dry.

 

"You shouldn't panic, Patrick," Andrews calmly stated, his voice coming from somewhere above Jane's head. Jane tried to twist and turn his head to see what was happening, but the bulging strap across his neck kept him from doing so, "this will be a painless procedure, really. You'll thank Red John for fixing your life, especially with that little bitch of yours." Jane felt a sudden heat flush through his body and he gritted his teeth; Lisbon deserved to be treated better than that. "I bet she's good in bed, eh, Patty?"

 

"You son of a...!" Jane found his mouth stuffed with something coarse. He tried to force the offending item out with his tongue, but it was of no use; the item wouldn't bulge.

 

Andrews laughed. "Little thing like that, I bet she's a wild thing in the sack." Jane struggled against his leather restraints; he was going to kill the bastard. "You can't honestly tell me that you've never thought about tapping that hot little thing, can you?" Lisbon was just a friend! He couldn't deny that she was attractive, but he had never seen her as anything more than a best friend and the idea that he could even use her body for sex disgusted him. "I'd give my right arm to lap up her..." Jane narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils. If he had been able to escape from his restraints, his hands would have gone straight for the man's neck only to break it in half.

 

"Stop playing with him and come help me," Thomas’s gruff voice interrupted from somewhere across the room, "the boss won't be too happy if you don't have everything ready for him." Jane heard footsteps echo around the room, as he stared up at the white ceiling—decorated with silver vents. Although he hadn't gotten a good view of the room previously, he had a strong feeling that the room, with its two stainless steel tables and endless drains upon the floor with vents upon the walls, had once served as a private mortuary. Jane honestly didn't know whether to be more frightened by the fact that Red John owned a mortuary or the fact he was in one and couldn't see what was going to happen to him.

 

He managed to swallow through the gag in his mouth, before he thought back to what Red John had said. Had the serial killer been pulling his leg about the body swap crack? Body swapping, something he had only ever witnessed on old black and white television movies and in books, didn’t exist.

 

Did it?

 

If it weren’t for the gag in his mouth, he would have scoffed at his own second guessing. The entire concept of body swapping was created by science fiction junkies, who had probably thought that their own lives were too boring to dabble in.

 

Was it possible that Red John’s use of _body swapping_ was a euphemism for something much darker? He felt his pulse begin to race and he heard the sound of his heart thrash in his ears. Were Lisbon and the team going to find his body; completely mangled and crudely disemboweled somewhere, due to the various cutting tools strung high and low throughout the room?

 

He couldn't even begin to imagine how Lisbon would react if the sight of his mangled body greeted her. Jane doubted she would cry, only because the senior agent had always felt that she had to remain strong in front of her unit. But if she had stumbled upon his body alone, he could imagine the slender brunette bent over and dry heaving at the sight of his bloody corpse.

 

If the gag hadn’t been in his mouth, he would have frowned. Jane didn’t want Lisbon or any of the team stumbling upon his mangled corpse, but he didn’t want them not finding him either. If Red John had taken his wife and child, he would have never given up the hope of finding them alive. Living with the general assumption that anybody, kidnapped by a serial killer, could walk through the door at any moment or could never be found at all, was something he would never wish upon any of Lisbon’s team.

 

The sudden sound of echoing footsteps within the room interrupted his thoughts and refocused his attention on whoever had just stepped into the room. He had a strong feeling that Thomas and Andrews were still in the room, because he had heard them shuffling around earlier, and that the new person wasn’t a friendly person. He tried to strain his hearing over his thudding heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears, but he could only hear the eerie sounds of silence. He tried to fight his way from the restraints again, as he tried to push the gag from his mouth with his nearly dried tongue, before he heard Red John's chuckle from near him.

 

Jane stilled completely and forced his eyeballs up in their sockets to try and locate the serial killer, which he couldn’t do. Red John was somewhere in the large room with him, but the serial killer wasn’t anywhere within his line of sight.

 

            “He looks so comfortable upon the table, doesn’t he?” Jane heard Red John speak, his tone dripped of pure sarcasm. “Who decided upon the leather restraints at the neck?”

 

            “That would be I, sir.” Thomas replied.

 

            “They’re an excellent touch.” Red John smoothly answered, before he fell silent and Jane heard his heavy footsteps again. “My neck won’t be in a restraint, will it?”

 

            “No, sir.” Thomas tried to reassure his master. “We will have to restrain your arms, but only because of the violent reactions that you might experience.” Jane furrowed his brows, already tired of the white ceiling above him. Why would Red John have a violent reaction to killing him? What was truly going on? Red John had a plethora of weapons scattered around the room, but he wanted to continue using the restraints? It made no sense. Jane kept glancing around for Red John, who was still nowhere to be seen.

 

"Don't look so troubled, Mr. Jane. I wouldn't dare do anything to hurt you, and this body swapping procedure is relatively harmless." Jane tried to push the gag out again; his mouth free from all saliva. "I'd take your gag out, but I don't want to hear anymore nasty things about myself and my friends." He heard Andrews snicker. "And I'm quite positive you'll try and scream, which is something we can't have. I have great use for you," Red John continued, "and if you're found before I can use you, I think I'll just have to kill Agent Lisbon."

 

Jane arched up against his restraints again in anger.

 

"I wouldn't want to kill her, Patrick." Red John said. Jane didn't believe him at all; all serial killers lied. "I have a certain amount of begrudging respect for her. She spent years putting up with you and your antics, and if I killed her, I'd miss the closeness that we all share." Jane heard Red John chuckle and he felt even more driven to kill the twisted bastard. Red John and Lisbon shared nothing, and his imagined "closeness" with her sent shivers through his restrained legs. "And you wouldn't want her death on your hands, would you? I know you're better than that, Patrick." Jane felt a hand on his arm, which made him try and jerk his head free from the tight restraints. "I know you don't trust me, but I want to tell you a little story before we begin." Red John said nothing and Jane almost rolled his eyes. What kind of sick psychopath wanted to tell a story before having him killed? "Years ago, I had a chance encounter to work with Dr. Derrick Kraze; a wonderful man and even more brilliant scientist, who had been researching the theoretical possibilities of body swapping." Jane didn't believe him or his story at all. "I was mainly taking notes for him and I couldn't believe my eyes, until I witnessed the procedure between Dr. Kraze's teaching assistant and her best friend. I admit, I was skeptical at first, but I reviewed all my written notes and realized that Dr. Kraze was onto something." Red John paused, before he continued again. "Just imagine if you could swap bodies with anyone in the world! You could gain access into confidential files or gain information by merely looking like the other person. You have to admit, real or not, it sounds like the setup for the most perfect crime. _If_ you can swap back before being caught." Jane felt the insides of his stomach roll. The more Red John spoke, the less Jane thought the serial killer was kidding. How had Red John been able to obtain his hands on all of the information? Was it actually real? "I've heard the comparisons between myself and you all of the time, and Agent Darcy's comment about you working for me made me call up my good friend, Dr. Kraze." Jane felt his heart sink into his stomach. This wasn't good. "He refused to help me out, and if you’re smart, you know saying _no_ to me is a bad thing.” Jane could hear the sinister smile in his voice. “So, I did what I had to do to get what I needed.” Red John had killed Dr. Kraze; that much was obvious. Jane felt Red John’s hand yank up the sleeve to his shirt, but he still couldn’t see the man. “This entire process is painless, I promise. You’ll feel a little sting, have some minor discomfort and side effects, but you won’t remember any of that later on.” Jane felt Red John tighten a tourniquet against his upper right arm, while he tried to struggle again. He didn’t want to be Red John, he only wanted to be himself! “My men will keep you in good company.” Jane heard a snort from somewhere within the room. “You’ll be fed, treated well and be released on my orders.” The tight tourniquet against his inner elbow was yanked again, much to Jane’s displeasure.

 

            “When I get out of this, I will kill you.” Jane swore and Red John chuckled. “Lisbon will kill you.”

 

            “If you remember anything I’ve shared with you today, Mr. Jane.” Red John stated. “I’ll be immensely surprised.” Before Jane could ponder any further on what the serial killer had meant by his cryptic statement, he felt something pinch the inside of his elbow. “Sweet dreams,” was the last thing he heard, as whatever Red John had injected into his bloodstream took effect and everything went dark. 


	3. Chapter 3

**3—**

****

Red John’s eyes slowly opened to near darkness, as he felt the downy pillows that his female accomplices had adorned his bed with, under his aching head. The familiar heavy, velvet red curtains around his bed were drawn together and the white ceiling was tinted a dull yellow, due to one of the many lamps spread around the room.

 

The master bedroom, easily the largest room in the rural hideout, had always been his favorite room for a few reasons. Firstly, the master bedroom was his and his alone.  He had never allowed for any of his male accomplices to step onto the top floor of the hideout, where his bedroom had been situated and where his female accomplices often remained at night. Secondly, he kept all of his obtained trophies from his murder victims and accomplices (both male and female) stashed away in a clandestine safe; something he kept to himself, as he didn’t trust any of his accomplices with that knowledge.

 

He blinked and tried to lift his head from the pillows, but he was meant with a splitting headache, which caused him to groan. The moment the low sound left his mouth, he froze. The groan wasn’t his. The groan belonged to Patrick Jane.

 

Without waiting for an explanation as to why he sounded like Patrick, Red John brought one of his hands to his face and examined it in the dim light. The hand—elongated fingers, a wedding band on the ring finger—wasn’t one of his and he let out a loud cry in alarm, which had the heavy bed curtain being torn apart to reveal a slender brunette, who greeted him with a smile.

 

            “Good morning, sir.” Lorelei said, as she pressed her lips to his forehead. Lorelei had been with him for a few months and he had planned on using her to lure Patrick away from Teresa, but things had changed. “How are we feeling today?”

 

“I’m fine, Lorelei.” He felt disoriented and confused, not that he would tell her that though. Unless he was giving specific orders, he gave short answers; it kept any of his accomplices from asking too much. Lorelei said nothing to his answer, as she sat at the foot of his bed and tilted her head slightly. Red John gritted his teeth at her questioning stare. “Is there something wrong? You seem perplexed.”

 

The youthful accomplice bowed her head, as if she were ashamed at her behavior. “I’ve never seen your face before, sir.” Red John remained quiet. “You are an attractive man.” He stared at her in surprise. When her lips had touched his forehead, he hadn’t felt cotton brush against his forehead and his eye brows shot up. Who had taken the mask off of his face? Lorelei kept her eyes down. “I shouldn’t have said that, sir. I’ll take any punishment that you deem necessary…”

 

            “Silence, Lorelei.” Red John interrupted her and Lorelei fell silent. Craig O’Laughlin had apparently trained the cocktail waitress well, which pleased him greatly. If O’Laughlin had still been alive, the FBI Agent would have been rewarded for his good work. “Where is my mask?” Lorelei glanced up at him and her brown eyes met his.

 

            “I have no idea, sir.” Lorelei responded. Red John knew she wasn’t lying, as the brunette blinked. “I heard you and I found you without your mask on.” Red John tried to remember what he had done last night, but his mind came up blank. He doubted he had been drinking anything last night, as he kept his drinking to a bare minimum, however the lapse in his memory troubled him. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

 

            “Yes, you can get me a mirror.” Lorelei nodded and removed herself from his bed. Red John watched her disappear into the bathroom, before she came back to him with a mirror in her hands. He gingerly took the mirror from her grasp and held it up to see his reflection within the silver surface; he hoped to find some evidence of what had happened last night.

 

The person in the mirror made him inhale, sharply. The person had blonde hair, bluish-green eyes, pallid skin and his mouth was slightly parted in surprise and if Red John hadn’t known any better, he would have believed that somebody was playing a trick on him. He changed his expression from surprise to a faint smile and he watched as the reflection of Patrick Jane mimicked those same actions; the faint laugh lines, the pink lips, the crinkled brow, and the small dimples.

 

Everything belonged to Patrick Jane.

             

He was Patrick Jane.

 

            “It worked.” Red John stated in a murmur, as he handed the mirror back to Lorelei. He had witnessed the results from Dr. Kraze’s first test years ago, but he had never expected that the results could have been duplicated from a few lab papers, a stolen machine, and one vial of Vicissivenom, which had allowed for the body swapping procedure to occur without risk of insanity or permanent brain injury. Red John glanced down at the crook of his elbow to stare at the two flesh colored bandages and he couldn’t help but smirk; if he had fared well enough, he could only imagine how Patrick had fared without the Vicissivenom.

 

If Thomas had executed his given orders perfectly, Patrick would be ill for days. Not having the Vicissivenom in the bloodstream fifteen minutes after the procedure held several nasty side effects, both mental and physical. They probably could have split the vial in half, but his mental health was more important than Patrick’s.  Red John wanted to ask where they had put the man, but he knew Lorelei would be confused, as she was merely his exquisite plaything.

 

            “You should inform the attendant that I request a meeting with AT in about thirty minutes.” Red John ordered Lorelei, who had placed the mirror on the bed with a nod.

 

            “Right away, sir.” Lorelei hurried from the room and Red John threw the heavy comforter aside, only to glance down at Jane’s bare feet and long legs. With a shaky inhale, Red John moved himself from the bed and onto the cool hardwood floor of the master bedroom. It took him a few moments to feel somewhat comfortable in Patrick’s body, as the blonde consultant had been an inch taller and had weighed more than his own body.

 

The entire situation felt surreal, really.

 

Red John was going to sabotage his nemesis’s chances of happiness, all while discovering what made the man tick. He brought his hands together; he couldn’t wait to play cat and mouse within the hallowed halls of the CBI, using each of the remaining Serious Crimes Unit members as worthless chess pieces in his ultimate game.

 

But before he could do any of that, he had to change into something much more appropriate. Showing up to a meeting in nothing more than a pair of silk boxers would not have been looked upon very highly, especially as he was the man in charge. Red John moved toward his walk-in closet and pulled the dangling silver chain to allow for a dim beam of light to fill the space, he quickly grabbed a pair of blue jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt, along with a pair of clean boxers from the wooden floor.

 

The gentle hum from the air conditioning met him, as he closed the closet door and entered the immaculate bathroom; marble countertops decorated with miscellaneous objects, a black porcelain bathtub and matching toilet, and a sink greeted him. Red John removed his boxers, the blue silk clashed against the speckled marble floor, as he stepped toward the full-length mirror on the back of the dark bathroom door. 

 

The reflective surface of the mirror allowed for him to admire his new body, as he blinked and took in the sight.

 

Patrick’s shoulders were broad, his chest pale, hairless and contoured of bone and sinew. His abdomen felt flat beneath his own touch, as he trailed his fingers from Patrick’s chest, to Patrick’s abdomen, to Patrick’s thighs.

 

From Patrick’s bare thighs and hips, which he could tell had a small amount of muscle to them; his full attention was drawn to Patrick’s manhood. Red John had never found himself attracted to other men before, but the length of Patrick’s freely hanging shaft against his closed legs impressed him and he felt the aching desire to fondle the bulging penis.

 

Slowly, he touched the rigid flesh of his penis, the gingerly touch sent a shiver of unfamiliar pleasure through his entire body and his eyes widened. How long had it last been since Patrick had given into having sex with a human being or pleasuring himself with his hands?

 

Red John shook his head. Being without sex would just never do for him. He had never denied himself the three most important pleasures within his life; killing, money, and sex. And if Patrick’s pelvic area was in a general state of disuse, he knew he’d have to fix that with two hands and a mental image to help the body get started again.

 

With a sly glance at the circular clock above the door, Red John realized that he had fifteen or so minutes before he had to deal with Thomas and Andrews. Quickly, he lathered both of his hands in his own spit and clasped them around Patrick’s shaft. He rubbed his hands together, Patrick’s manhood in the middle, as he stared at himself in the mirror. He wondered what image would stimulate Patrick’s body into having a reaction, as the man clearly had a different taste in women than he had.

 

Would the image of Lorelei and her slick wet heat at the penetration of his cock into her folds do anything? Red John closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scent and taste of sex, but nothing came.

 

He frowned. He and Lorelei had just been together the night before last, and he couldn’t even remember the smallest of details? He gritted his teeth together. What did he have to do to get a damned reaction? Find Teresa Lisbon and stare at her?

 

A fleeting image of the brunette dancing around her living room, in a short sports jersey came to mind from when he had been surveying her in her home and he felt Patrick’s manhood twitch in response.

 

Red John opened his eyes and laughed, the loud sound filling the cavernous bathroom.

 

_Of course Teresa Lisbon would get Patrick Jane off_ , he thought. He closed his eyes again and tried to remember when he had last been near the woman.

 

Patrick’s senses of the woman flooded his mind, which made him furrow his brows in confusion; her intoxicating scent of vanilla and cinnamon, the sudden warmth at her teasing touch pitted in his abdomen, the feeling of joy at her booming laugh, while his hands continued to work at Patrick’s shaft. 

 

Red John wracked his brain for an explanation. He had never been close enough for Teresa to touch him, but Patrick had. He should have never been able to feel what Patrick felt; the sadness of not being able to love Teresa and the bitter resentment toward his nemesis for targeting those whom Patrick loved. However, he realized with the upturn of his lips, that the unintended side effect of Jane’s emotions (if that’s what it was) would help him out more than anything else would.

 

Eventually and without forethought, he abandoned himself to pleasure and the warm cum from his cock coated his fingers and squirted across the reflective surface, clouding Patrick’s body from his appreciative eyes.

 

He glanced back up at the ticking clock, before he sighed. He had so much more he wanted to do, so much more he wanted to explore within his new body, but he had eight minutes to ready himself for the next few hours of preparation and he had more important things to think about than sex or Teresa Lisbon.  He did, after all, have lives to destroy and a new life to acclimate to.

* * *

Seated behind his clutter-free desk, Red John impatiently waited for either Andrews or Thomas to break the silence. Both accomplices, his most trusted and indoctrinated, sat in front of his desk; their heads bowed toward the wooden floor, as they tried to not stare at his new appearance. He flashed them both a slightly irritated smile, as his fingers tapped against one of his many books on parsing the human body language. Thomas, eventually, cleared his throat and gained the attention of both Red John and Andrews.

 

            “Sir,” Thomas began and Red John nodded for him to continue, “how does it feel?”

 

            “Offsetting.” Red John responded. He refused to tell either of them about his mishap in the bathroom earlier; although he had a feeling that Lorelei would find the yellow-stained wall above the toilet and come to the conclusion that he had not yet been able to control his own bodily functions.

 

Lorelei would never say anything about his lack of control to any of the men within his higher circle. The brunette beauty knew only how to pleasure him in bed, due to safety concerns.

 

Red John frowned. After he had made the mistake with Rebecca; he had confided in her, more than he should have done, he had realized that his women followers were more susceptible to Patrick Jane’s superficial charm. O’Laughlin had warned him of possible deflections due to Mr. Jane and his silver tongue, back when the FBI Agent had been a part of his inner circle. If the damned consultant hadn’t ousted him to his bitch, O’Laughlin wouldn’t have been buried six-feet-under with bullet holes through his chest from his overzealous ex-fiancée. “Where did you put our guest?” They all knew he was talking about Jane and further clarification would have been a waste of time.

 

Andrews’ lips titled into a slight smirk, until he cleared his throat to answer the question. “Mr. Jane is currently resting in a bathtub; he, as you should be aware of, is violently ill.” Red John let out a bark of laughter, which caused both Andrews and Thomas to join in. Laughter shook the room for a few more seconds, before Red John grew silent again.

 

            “Good.” Red John replied. “You will keep me apprised of his condition, as I do not want him to die.” Andrews furrowed his fair brows, his pink lips pursed tightly together. “Is something a matter, Andrews?” He tried to keep his patience, but the stupidity of his accomplices ebbed away at his nerves. Andrews had to have some form of intelligence, didn’t he? If _Red John_ , the infamous serial killer of California, said that he wanted Mr. Jane _alive_ ; it meant that he wanted the man alive and that it wasn’t up for a debate. Thomas remained quiet, which Red John highly approved of.

 

            “Can I speak candidly, sir?” Andrews asked and Red John nodded slightly. Andrews took a shaky inhale, before he continued on. “From the research we conducted on the body swapping experiment, we discovered that the maximum amount of time that one can stay in the opposite body before going insane was seventy-two hours.” Red John made no movement, his eyes focused on the nervous Andrews without blinking. Whether Andrews thought him to be idiotic or not, he had seen those same reports ninety-two hours before the swap had occurred.

 

Red John knew the risks, but the outcome he hoped for outweighed the risks.

 

            “Sir,” Andrews continued, “we weren’t made aware of your plans to remain in Mr. Jane’s body for over seventy-two hours…”

 

Red John fixed him with a steely gaze; the words from the idiotic accomplice made his temper rise. “Do I have to inform you of everything I do, Andrews?” Andrews balefully shook his head and glanced down at the floor in an act of submission, which sedated his anger for the time being. “You might be in my inner circle, Andrews, but that doesn’t mean you are privy to all of my decisions.”

 

            “I apologize, sir.” Andrews said, with his eyes still on the hardwood floor. “It won’t happen again, sir.” Red John nodded, although he kept his eyes on the youthful accomplice’s bowed head. The young man, who he had discovered on the streets years ago, had never been so outspoken before and it troubled him. Why had the young man raised his concerns all of a sudden about the body swap, especially when they had all been working on it for weeks?

 

Thomas broke through the silence. “You plan on staying like Patrick Jane, sir?” Red John nodded.

 

Andrews glanced over to Thomas, who kept his attention on Red John. Andrews’ behavior irritated him. Had they completely forgotten that he owned them and that he could kill them in one swift move? “Sir,” Andrews addressed him again, “are you sure that’s a good idea?”

 

Murderous rage filled Red John, as his hand went for the red-stained letter opener atop his desk, before he stood from his desk and motioned for Andrews to stand. Andrews stood, only for the blade of the letter opener to be pressed against the youth’s neck.

 

            “Are you questioning me?” Red John questioned, the sharp blade drew droplets of blood. Andrews sharply inhaled. “You fool. You don’t question me.” Red John dragged the letter opener across Andrews’ throat, without a second thought. Ecstasy flooded through his body at the sight of the vibrant scarlet liquid spurting from the gash across Andrews’ throat; he wondered how much of that ecstasy was of his own and how much of that was from Jane’s remaining emotions.

 

Nothing was said, until Andrews’ scarlet-drenched body dropped to the hardwood floor with a thump. Red John stepped away from the body and glanced at Thomas, who kept his eyes focused forward. Thomas had been around for enough executions of his various accomplices to know not to mourn the loss, visibly; as the death of an accomplice usually meant that they had crossed him.

 

            “I think you can handle things yourself, Thomas.” Red John addressed his blank-faced accomplice. “You can do anything to Mr. Jane to keep him under and unaware, short of actually murdering him.” Thomas nodded and Red John heard the question lingering on the man’s thoughts. “You’re wondering what I’m doing too, aren’t you?” Thomas nodded, as he slowly stood from his chair and bowed his head; Red John pulled his lips into a faint smile. Thomas had never been disloyal to him and although, he had never answered questions unrelated to his orders, he felt the need to inform his loyal friend of his plans.

 

Red John made his way back behind his desk to place the scarlet-stained letter opener away, before he leveled the dark-haired, gray-eyed accomplice with a bemused look. “I have already killed enough accomplices today, Thomas.” Thomas’ head shot up, his eyes wide in surprise. “I do not plan on killing you.”

 

            “Thank you, sir.” Thomas said. Red John could hear the light stammer in his voice, which continued to amuse him. Even under the guise of Patrick Jane, his accomplices and friends were still scared of him and what he could do to them; it was a good feeling.

 

He kept his eyes on Thomas, as he curled his lips into a slight smile and cleared his throat. Thomas met his eyes. “Ruining Mr. Jane’s life, of course.” Thomas remained quiet and Red John dismissed him with the wave of his hand; he no longer needed the presence of his inner circle, as the accomplice now had his orders and he had more important things to refocus his complete attention on.

 

Like the Serious Crimes Unit and how he was going to fool them, for example.

 

Destroying them, he knew, would be the easy part. None of the members on the unit were entirely too stable apparently, considering that all of them had followed Jane around for years with their tails tucked between their legs, while their precious consultant _closed cases_. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought that the Serious Crimes Unit couldn’t do anything without their so-called golden boy around. Fooling them all into believing he was Patrick Jane, on the other hand, wouldn’t be so easy.

 

Physical appearance and DNA was one thing. Red John had Jane’s fingerprints, the man’s unique scent of leather and mint, his type of blood, his blonde hair, and his perfect teeth. He had also obtained the material objects from the man’s unconscious form earlier: Jane’s car keys remained in the bottom drawer of his desk, along with the single key to his extended stay motel room, his laminated CBI Consultant badge, and his slender cellphone.

 

However, he knew he didn’t have all of Jane’s mannerisms down. Jane was both charming and egotistical, something he had never considered himself to be. If he stepped foot in the CBI building and he couldn’t charm or con anyone; someone would immediately become suspicious of him and his odd behavior. 

 

_Of course_ , Red John thought with the tilt of his lips, _the Serious Crimes Unit would be naïve enough to conclude that Jane’s odd behavior had something to do with Amy’s suicide._

 

Either way, he also knew he that he couldn’t just jump into Jane’s life. Adjustment would take time, even though time wasn’t a luxury he could readily afford.

 

His hand went for Jane’s belongings.

 

If he wanted to lull the unit into a false sense of security, Red John would have to stop killing and he would have to emerge himself into Patrick Jane’s life; starting with where the man lived, when he wasn’t solving cases.

* * *

 

Driving Jane’s beloved vehicle turned out to be more of a headache than he had anticipated. The light blue death trap of a contraption had no seat belts and the doors often stuck, which had sent him into a fit of rage twice.

 

Jane had money, Red John was absolutely positive of that; the conman had taken psychic gig upon gig when he had been married to support his little girl and whore of a wife. Yet, the man still chose to drive around in a piece of shit? Red John doubted that mechanics in town could even find an oil filter for the damned thing within their shops, without charging hundreds of dollars to find the _perfect fit_. 

 

Red John remembered the little blue vehicle, of course. How could he not? The damned little thing had traipsed from one crime scene to another; the dishonest little worm with his shiny suits and distasteful ties and slicked back hair had slandered him to the media and to law enforcement officers.

 

_He has a small speech impediment that he’s deeply ashamed of._

In front of the Sacramento extended stay motel, Red John slammed his hand down on the vehicle’s steering wheel out of rage. Patrick Jane had only heard his technology modified voice, which sounded nothing like his real voice. The fake psychic had claimed that _Red John_ had a small speech impediment, yet Jane had never met him before.

 

Whatever small speech impediment he might have had as a child, his father had beaten it out of him at a young age. His father had continuously preached the need of looking strong to others via his leather belt, while his mother had stared on passively. Red John scowled and hit the steering wheel again; he hadn’t thought of his asinine family in years.

 

Much to his relief, the blaring car horn put an end to his thoughts. Red John removed his hand from the steering wheel and threw open the car door, before he rested his feet upon the concrete ground and removed his own self from the vehicle. The door to the little blue vehicle slammed shut behind him, as he started toward the spacious motel.

 

_The items that I brought from my rural home can wait until morning to be brought up,_ he quietly decided, as he ascended the open staircase in waning daylight to find motel room 239.

 

Room 239—aside from the leather bound journals that sat upon the dark window sill—looked as if no one had ever occupied the room.  The small bathroom (with one white towel, adjacent to the shower and toilet) was spotless, the closet (filled to the brim with three-piece suits, which had probably cost Jane five-hundred dollars per suit) had a large hallow space of floor in the back where he’d eventually hide his safe, and the little kitchen (if one could call it that) held a small amount of edible food with a microwave and a portable stove. The living arrangements disgusted him, but he doubted he would be staying there for too long.

 

Red John stepped from the small “kitchen” and collapsed onto Jane’s queen-sized bed with a muffled groan. He wanted to do nothing but sleep, although his new body refused to cooperate with what he desired; his legs shifted restlessly and his heartbeat quickened within his chest. His eyelids refused to close, as he tried to make his body to shut down for the night.

 

With a frustrated sigh, Red John kicked off his leather dress shoes and reclined backwards on the soft bed to stare up at the white ceiling. He had known Jane was an insomniac, but he hadn’t expected that the man’s insomniac tendencies would linger post body swapping procedure.

 

_Just like I hadn’t anticipated on the reaction from earlier_ , Red John thought. Jane apparently hadn’t been sexually active in so long that the very image of Teresa’s long legs had sent him over the edge in sexual pleasure. _Maybe_ , Red John continued with his line of thought, _I had mislabeled their relationship_.

 

If he had mislabeled their relationship and they weren’t fucking each other, then he would need to change his plans slightly for the destruction of the team.

 

Red John had wanted to cheat on Teresa with Grace to hurt her, but if Teresa and Patrick weren’t together; it honestly wouldn’t matter who he screwed, as Teresa wouldn’t care. Which meant that his first course of action (besides getting used to Patrick’s body), would be to seduce the senior agent into his sheets.

 

The seduction would also be the easy part. Red John would feed the woman a few lines about _how much he needed her_ and _how much he couldn’t live without her_ and she’d part her legs for him. He’d manipulate her feelings with his words and special actions and just when she felt something beyond friendship for him; he’d destroy her by uttering the same exact words to Grace.

 

And if he had to be completely honest with himself, Teresa would be nothing compared to Grace. Grace wore the color red, quite beautifully; a color he had always found himself enticed by and fascinated with. He knew from Craig that Grace had once been in love with Wayne Rigsby, but now that the agent had a girlfriend and a little boy, Red John doubted he had anything to be worried about.

 

He shifted again, as he tried to lull his mind into a state of sleep.

 

Red John would have all of tomorrow to acclimatize to Jane’s body and give any last minute orders to his accomplices that he had neglected to mention before he had left. Tuesday, on the other hand, he would begin to integrate himself into the Serious Crimes Unit as the real Patrick Jane and he only hoped that everything would go without a hitch.

 

Or, his lips twitched into a slight smirk, the Serious Crimes Unit would all find themselves at the end of his blade and a scarlet smiley face above them to match.


	4. Chapter 4

**4—**

 

At a little past six in the morning, Red John found himself with the Serious Crimes Unit bullpen. He had Jane’s badge clenched tightly in his fingers, as he glanced around the dead and dimly lit bullpen. Desks remained in almost every available space and he knew without a doubt that most of the desks within the cluttered room belonged to the members of the SCU.

 

Red John had always believed in the concept of psychology and from a distance, he noticed that each had probably been decorated to reflect its current owner; some of the desks had small trinkets nearby (cheap toy vehicles, a plastic basketball hoop off to the side), while other desks were colored by paperwork left over from Friday evening. He briefly stepped over to the desk closest to him and lifted the discolored manila folder with vague interest; he knew he would find the case information for either Amy or Alice Childs, but he wanted to see if the agents had discovered anything unusual about the case yet.

 

Grace’s legible handwriting graced each page within the folder, as he flipped through and scanned the details of the case. _Amy Childs had always shown some psychological distress prior to her sister’s death, Terri Childs had said_. Red John shook his head with a scowl. Terri and Bryan Childs, the matriarch and patriarch of the family, had only ever paid attention to their youngest pride and joy, Alice Nicole. If either Terri or Bryan had taken the time to properly appreciate and nurture their eldest daughter and her various talents, Amy wouldn’t have been so easy to entice into making her younger sister drink undiluted sanitizer from a plastic bottle that she had filled at her local workplace.

 

Red John shook his head at some of Grace’s written comments. Whether the redheaded agent knew it or not, the immediate family of Alice and Amy would paint the eldest daughter as a criminal; Amy had gone to a state university for a creative writing degree two hours away from her hometown, though her parents had wanted her to stay close and obtain a license to practice medicine. Alice, on the other hand, had been encouraged to take up a major in acting, which had made Amy somewhat bitter.

 

Amy had never once belittled her sister’s acting talents, but the entire family had continued to belittle Amy over her ultimately useless major. He had watched the young woman take hit after hit about her lack of talent, until he had eventually offered her a hand in something great; the chance to make something of herself and show the world that she was more than _just_ Amy Childs, the repressed daughter of an abusive family.

 

He sat the manila folder back down on Grace’s desk, before he turned around to face the nearly empty desk near the decrepit leather couch. Red John had never been able to spy on the unit within the bullpen, but both Rebecca and O’Laughlin had told him about Jane’s property within the bullpen; a desk, adorned with books on the human condition and a rather old, leather couch.

 

Neither accomplice had been able to tell him which one the man had preferred though, but he doubted anybody would kick up a fuss about his decision to sit at the desk. With that thought, Red John slid into the uncomfortable desk chair and closed his eyes. Yesterday had been a hectic day; he hadn’t slept well, as Jane’s body had outright refused to acclimatize to his own sleep schedule and because the neighbors next door had decided that everybody within hearing distance needed to be privy to their cheating ways. Thomas had called him with concerns about Jane’s odd behavior in the bathroom, which had irritated him even more. The isolated bathroom, deep within the bowels of his rural hideout, had been constructed by occupants in the early eighteen-hundreds to contain their supposed mentally unsound daughter. The small cell of a room had been redesigned with soundproof walls and only held a porcelain bathtub, a matching toilet, and an uncomfortable metal bed with leather restraints.

 

Patrick had apparently taken a turn for the worst last night, as the man had a seizure under Thomas’s watch.

 

            “I’m not a doctor, sir.” Thomas had said, when Red John had pressed for more details over his cup of morning tea. “Mr. Jane had been in a cationic state for most of the night, until right around three this morning.” The time of the seizure had surprised him, as he had dozed off around that time. “From a distance, I watched his body shake. His mouth frothed, I believe and I could smell the unmistakable stench of urine again.”

 

            “Why didn’t you restrain him?” Red John had asked, through clenched teeth. Seizures had been known to kill individuals before and if Patrick had died due to the stupidity of his accomplices, heads would roll. He wasn’t asking Thomas to take the man to the doctor; he was just asking the accomplice to take care of _his_ body, the individual residing inside of it and not to look under the mask he had left on his body. “Do I need to return?”

 

Thomas had reassured him that he didn’t need to return. Red John took the words from his accomplice under advisement, as he had spent the rest of the day holed up inside Patrick’s motel room, exploring his various options.

 

Red John opened his eyes and scanned the dark room; nobody else had joined him within the room, yet something didn’t feel quite right about the room. He took a quick glimpse in the direction of the dark kitchenette, only to find it completely lit and his movements stilled. Had the CBI custodial crew decided to start their day? Or had someone from the Serious Crimes Unit decided to start their early, as well? Red John heard the click-clack of shoes from a distance and he willed his body to stay put.

 

He had started his day early to get a handle on the CBI and each of its dysfunctional agents within the SCU, but he had never counted on another agent joining him at six-thirty in the morning. He closed his eyes again and tried to ignore the unknown presence, as he wracked his brain for information that he had gleamed about the members of the SCU from the various moles he had placed on the inside. Red John had known that the unit held four agents—Kimball Cho, Wayne Rigsby, Grace Van Pelt and Teresa Lisbon. He had also learned that the CBI had gone through two bosses in the past four years and that they were currently on their third one: Luther Wainwright, who nobody could take seriously due to his youthful age.

 

However, his friends had given him a few new pieces of information yesterday.

 

Kimball had a girlfriend named Summer, who dallied in the professions of prostitution and snitching out her clients’ dirty laundry. The man, according to one of his many friends, was smitten with his blonde prostitute; answering her calls at work, always running to her side if she needed him, and allowing her to span his addiction to painkillers.

 

Red John had often found the concept of love to be a silly thing, good for only luring individuals into committing atrocious acts to help _better_ the world. _Feeling love for anything_ , he believed with a scowl, _makes you weak and undeserving of good things._ His father had never truly loved his mother and the world had still gone on, without even caring that a little boy at the age of seven had to listen to the screams of his mother almost every night.

 

He shook the childhood memory off with the satisfying image of his father’s bloodied body; his ghastly head buried under an old oak tree back home, after having been garroted with a length of red speaker wire. His father had gotten what he deserved in the end, much like everybody else eventually would.

 

Wayne had a girlfriend named Sarah and a little boy named Benjamin. Wayne had worshiped Grace for years, until the enchanted agent had apparently realized that the redheaded female was no better than a ten cent whore and that he needed to move on with his life.

 

So he had, with a defense lawyer, and the man hadn’t been able to keep his manhood in his pants, as baby Benjamin had been conceived on a red couch and had become a bastard out of wedlock.

 

It had also seemed as if the younger agent had the philosophy of _if that one doesn’t satisfy you, throw it away and find a new one_ toward women, which Red John immensely approved of. In his opinion, women were nothing but tools that should only be used for ultimate sexual gratification and for the manipulation of others.

 

Grace was still reeling from the death of Craig O’Laughlin, her ex-fiancé. Grace had taken O’Laughlin from him via her whorish ways and he felt the need to teach her a lesson. Women like Grace also needed to be dominated and he knew exactly how to do it, as he had broken many women into his ranks.

 

Red John knew that by the time he was completely finished with her, the female agent would learn to keep her legs closed. His mouth went dry at the thought of nipping at her tits with his teeth, much like he had done with Lorelei; he couldn’t wait to get too started, but he knew he had to wait. Patience, whether he liked it or not, was vial to understanding how best to destroy the entire Serious Crimes Unit.

 

Teresa though, was his ticket to everything. The unit looked up to the Senior Agent, who had taken down more criminals than they ever had (or would) and Red John knew her heart (pure and good natured; two things that could be easily manipulated) belonged to Patrick. Of course, how could it not? Damaged intensities were highly attractive and Patrick, an ex-con with a past that just screamed _help me_ over and over again, attracted Teresa’s undying attention due to her ever present saving people complex.

 

After all, Teresa hadn’t been able to save her alcoholic father from ending his own life and because Patrick was still alive, she probably hoped that she could save him from either prison or death by leading him astray from his quest for revenge. Leading Patrick astray in his quest would never work though. The life of Patrick Jane belonged to him, as did the lives of everyone else that Patrick cared for.

 

The imagined image and feel of Grace’s large, quivering tits between his teeth hadn’t flooded his body with heat quite like Teresa’s vulnerable body had and he couldn’t wait to acquire her body for what it was ultimately worth. Teresa didn’t need to be taught a lesson like Grace did, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t make an example out of her.

 

Patrick Jane couldn’t love women, as he had been in love with his demons for so long and Teresa Lisbon was just wasting her time with him; she was his _collateral damage_ , after all. Teresa and her unit probably could have caught him eons ago, if the senior agent hadn’t been so invested in her own personal cause to fix and reform him into a better person.

 

The slender brunette was an idiot, in his opinion. She should have listened to the various warnings from her co-workers about Patrick and about the extent of carnage he left behind in his wake. If she had heeded those warnings, he would have never felt the need to try and reform her also. An eye for an eye was how the idiom often went, and Red John had never been one for ignoring idioms.  

* * *

 

Teresa Lisbon rechecked the time on her computer, before she stood from her desk and drained the last drop of coffee from her white CBI mug with a grimace. The coffee within the bureau had never tasted spectacular, as the coffee machine was probably older than most of the younger employees on the floor, but the cup she had just finished off tasted worse than usual and she debated silently on the idea of retrieving another cup.

 

Crap tasting coffee or not, she neededthe caffeine to try and wean off the inevitable headache she was bound to have later on. Lisbon could already feel the tension slowly creeping in, although she thought it might have had something to do with the way she had been hunched over her paperwork from their latest case and not due to the amount of lingering alcohol in her system.

 

After Wainwright had given them all three days off, Lisbon had been glad to return back to her desk and back to the mundane world of paperwork for a while. The past weekend had been a horrible one, due to the Child’s case that had weighed heavily on her mind all weekend. She had wondered if she could have stopped Amy from ending her own life, by wounding the younger woman.

 

But the more she had thought about it, the more she realized that Amy would have found another way to end her life. Not that the wistful thought had helped elevate her guilt, but still.

 

Lisbon glanced briefly at her desk phone, the grimace still on her face; she had been waiting for it to ring all morning and after the clock had crept past nine without a peep, she wondered if Agent Wainwright dealt with protocol differently than Minelli had. She and Jane had witnessed a traumatic sight and she knew from the last time—Dumar Hardy, Red John’s friend, almost having killed her and Jane having shot him in her defense—the bureau would want them cleared, before they were even allowed to return back to duty.

 

Wainwright, while young and inexperienced, didn’t seem like the type of CBI boss to go against protocol and Lisbon wondered if her previous experience with ex-CBI psychologist, Roy Carmen, had something to do with his radio silence.

 

_After all,_ Lisbon told herself, _Wainwright knows._

Minelli had included notes into everybody’s personnel file before he had retired and Hightower had approached to ask her about the Dr. Carmen situation shortly after. To her, it was common knowledge that the CBI bosses took the time to glance through the notes from their predecessors before they conferred with the heads of each unit to ask about anything disquieting. Wainwright, in their first meeting alone months ago, had only asked about the team’s role in the Timothy Carter/Craig O’Laughlin debacle and she had just assumed that Hightower had added more complete notes to her file about Carmen.

 

She yawned into her hand. Lisbon had been doing paperwork since she had stepped into her office at a little past five that morning, aside from the brief coffee break and the trip to the bathroom that she had taken due to the fullness in her bladder earlier, she had not been away from her paperwork for too long. With the coffee mug in her grasp, Lisbon decided to leave her office to drop in on her team, who hadn’t interrupted her all morning. The silence had been nice, but the lack of Jane’s presence troubled her.

 

The blonde consultant usually, fights or no fights, made his presence known early on in the work day. After he had been kidnapped by Rachel and had been cattle prodded enough times last year, Jane had refused to go anywhere without dropping in on her first (something about how he knew how much he meant to her and how he didn’t want to rob himself from her life). Of course, she had just rolled her eyes at his egotism.

 

Lisbon stepped past Ron within the hallway to get into the semi-busy bullpen. Her team, she quickly noticed, all sat at their desks and had their eyes focused on _Jane’s Corner_ , which remained empty of the consultant.

 

            “Good morning.” Lisbon greeted her team, who greeted her back with half-hearted smiles and waves. She stared at them all in bewilderment. First day back at work or not, the team usually (especially Grace Van Pelt) greeted her with more enthusiasm than that. She noticed that their attentions had gone back to _Jane’s Corner_ and she grew irritated. What was so interesting about Jane’s couch? “If you take a picture of Jane’s couch, it might actually last longer.”

 

Van Pelt’s brown eyes met hers first, a light blush dusted the junior agent’s cheeks. “Sorry, boss. We’re just a little confused.” Rigsby nodded in agreement from his desk and Cho merely blinked, which didn’t mean one thing or another to her.

 

            “By what?” Lisbon questioned. She wanted to know what about Jane’s couch had her team so distracted.

 

            “By me.” Jane’s voice came from behind her and she slowly turned to find the blonde consultant, a blue tea cup in his hands.

 

Lisbon’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth parted slightly in surprise. The team’s baffled expressions made more sense, especially as Jane wasn’t wearing his usual three-piece suit attire; he was wearing an expensive-looking black suit, a white collared shirt underneath and a light blue tie to boot.

 

            “Is there something wrong, Lisbon?” Jane asked her, she watched him take a sip of his tea with a small smile on his lips. “Nobody else would tell me, even though I’ve asked.” Lisbon blinked. The last time she had seen Jane outside of his three-piece suits, it had been when she had caught sight of him on television with her roommate many years ago. Jess had been watching the program in the living room of their apartment and when Lisbon had asked her why, after having left her own room to grab something to eat from the kitchen, the youthful blonde had replied with a simple shrug of her shoulders and had given the answer of: _“Teresa, Patrick Jane is attractive. I don’t watch for any of the psychic crap, I just watch for him and his body.”_

 

Lisbon swallowed back her concern for her consultant and friend, as he continued to brightly smile at her.

 

            “Nothing’s wrong, Jane.” She felt the team’s inquisitive stares on her and she brushed them all off. In front of the team, Lisbon knew, Jane would never admit if something was troubling him and she made a mental note to ask him about it when they were alone. She doubted his change of attire was directly related to their fight last Friday, but one never knew with the enigma that was Jane.

 

Jane stepped past her with a smile still and she turned on her heels to watch him resettle back down onto his couch, he never did though. Instead, the consultant moved to his rarely used desk, put the tea cup down, and lowered himself into the accompanying chair, before he picked a book up and held it to his face. 

 

Lisbon glanced to Cho in confusion. Jane had only ever used his desk to store his crap in, as the man had always enjoyed his couch more. Cho shrugged his shoulders in response and she sighed. If Jane’s behavior _was_ due to some mental break, caused by Amy Child’s suicide, she had to know sooner than later.

 

Slowly, she approached his desk and cleared her throat when he didn’t glance up from Thomas Harris’s _Hannibal_ right away, which he still held in his hands. From behind the book, she heard Jane eventually speak.

 

            “You remind me a lot of Clarice Starling, Lisbon.” Lisbon rolled her eyes. Only Jane could manage to compare her to a fictional character and still sound patronizing, while doing so. “Ambitious, smart, tough…” Jane trailed off, as if he had more to say on the matter, but he fell silent and rested the book back down on his desk to stare at her. “How may I be of service?”

 

            “Is everything alright, Jane?” Lisbon asked and she watched him take another sip of his tea.

 

            “Yes, Lisbon.” Jane responded, after he had set the tea cup back down. “Why wouldn’t it be?” _Because we’ve passed by the ninth anniversary of your wife and daughter’s deaths_ is what she wanted to say, but instead she shook her head at his question. “You don’t believe me?” Genuine surprise in his tone caught her attention. Jane knew she didn’t believe or trust him, unless the consultant had proof and proof wasn’t a conversation about _Hannibal_. “I’m hurt that you haven’t even asked who I would be within the book.”

 

Lisbon sighed under her breath. Jane would never tell her anything, unless she played along with his little game. “Okay, Jane. Who would you be within the book?” Jane’s smile widened.

 

            “I don’t think I should tell you right now, Lisbon.” Jane replied, which made Lisbon roll her eyes again. Even if Jane had told her who he thought he was, she would have very little idea of who he was talking about. She had read _Silence of the Lambs_ years ago, not that she remembered the book well enough to discuss literary themes with Jane and any comparisons he made from _Hannibal_ would have been moot to her. “Surprises are good for the heart.” Jane’s _surprises_ were never good for anything, except for spiking her blood pressure dangerously high.

 

            “Why aren’t you at your couch, Jane?” Lisbon swiftly changed the subject, as she brought her arms against her chest. “I usually have to beat you away from your couch, but today you’re at your desk?” Lisbon scanned Jane’s face for any sign of something being wrong, but his face gave her nothing to work with.

 

            “Change is good for the cathartic soul.” It didn’t surprise her that the consultant had avoided giving her an answer with an off-handed remark, even if it still slightly irked her. Jane continued to beam at her and with another shake of the head, Lisbon quickly turned away from him to address Van Pelt, who had gone back to focusing her attentions on something else.

 

            “Van…” Lisbon started only to be interrupted by the ringing of Van Pelt’s desk phone. Van Pelt answered on the third ring with an apologetic smile. Lisbon hoped the call wasn’t about a case, but they were homicide detectives and she wasn’t that lucky. She watched the Junior Agent write something down on a notepad, before she hung up the phone and turned to face her.

 

            “We have a case.” Van Pelt confirmed what Lisbon had already known. “It’s at Saint George’s High School in Dustin County.” Lisbon nodded, before she glanced around at her team. She knew that she and Jane wouldn’t be able to step onto the field until she had obtained Wainwright’s permission to do so, however, that didn’t mean that she couldn’t send several members of her team to scope out the scene.

 

            “Rigsby and Van Pelt go with Cho.” Lisbon ordered and she watched the team gather their jackets from the back of their chairs, before she turned back to Jane. “You and I need to stay here, until Agent Wainwright tells us otherwise.” The team left and Jane lost his smile. “Before you say anything; protocol is protocol, Jane. I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”

 

            “Call him then.” Jane suggested and Lisbon raised her eyebrow in response. Hurrying the head of the CBI never boded well for anybody, especially not those already in hot water with the upper management. “The longer we sit here, Lisbon, the longer chance the murderer has to slip away.” She knew Jane had a valid point. While Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt knew what they were doing and she trusted them to follow protocol at a crime scene, the murderer had a chance to slip away if the local PD and the CBI argued over jurisdiction. With her there though, she felt that she could at least alleviate some of the tensions between both groups with orders from Wainwright on who was point in the investigation. Jane stood from his desk and stepped toward her, only to put his hand on her upper arm.

 

Lisbon blinked down at his hand on her arm. Jane rarely touched others, which made her highly suspicious of him. Was Jane going to hypnotize her into calling Wainwright? She narrowed her eyes up at him, though he didn’t back away from her.

 

            “Jane…” Lisbon warned him and he smiled again at her.

 

            “I’m a friend, who just wants to encourage you to call Wainwright.” His bluish-green eyes met hers and she tried to ignore the knots forming in her stomach. “Nothing more, nothing less.” Jane removed his hand from her arm, as he continued to smile at her. “I’m going to get a cup of tea while we’re waiting for Wainwright. Call if you need anything.” Jane left her and her drumming heartbeat, which raced within her chest. She hated what his touch did to her, as it made it almost impossible to work with him.

 

_Jane’s right_ , Lisbon told herself, _I should call Wainwright._ If she didn’t call him, they’d never leave the office.

She went to Van Pelt’s desk and dialed Wainwright’s extension to his office with a new found determination. “Agent Wainwright,” Lisbon greeted, after the youthful boss had answered his phone. “I have a question for you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**5—**

 

 

In the passenger seat of the CBI-owned SUV, Red John tried to hide his smirk from Teresa. The seatbelt felt tight against his chest and he kept his eyes on the tree-dotted landscape of rural California. Teresa hadn’t say anything to him, aside from _“I called Agent Wainwright; he’s going to let us go, as he can’t bring another unit into this.”_ which she had told him earlier before ushering them both out from the bullpen.

 

Fitting in with the Serious Crimes Unit had been _much_ easier than he had originally anticipated, as he had already gotten the infamous Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon banter down from watching them over the years; the few minor mistakes he had made with Patrick’s behavior could easily be corrected the next time that they all stood in the CBI. Sitting on Patrick’s desk or wearing a regular suit wasn’t enough for an outcry, but the unit had certainly taken his lack of pattern to be shocking. Grace had asked him if he was feeling okay and as humored as the question had made him feel at a little past eight in the morning, he didn’t want any more suspicions popping up about him.

 

Teresa’s concern, however, worried him the most.

 

The brunette Senior Agent had yet to say anything to him in the car about his “odd behavior” and he wondered if she had just decided to brush his behavior off as something trivial or if she had been weighing the options for the last hour and a half of their car ride to Dustin County.

 

Red John worried that Teresa would get the impression that his “break from usual habits” via the not sitting on Patrick’s couch and wearing Patrick’s three-piece suit and the other various things he hadn’t yet picked up on needed psychiatric help; even if the woman didn’t seem like the type of person to find psychologists charming or particularly helpful, he was still weary that Patrick’s “odd behavior” would send off a bunch of red flags to her.

 

            “I’m surprised you haven’t turned on the radio yet.” Teresa’s voice broke through his thoughts and he forced his eyes away from the myriad of farms and towering Californian redwoods to stare at her.

 

            “Do you want me to turn the radio on?” Red John responded to her question and she glanced in his direction briefly.

 

            “Not particularly, no.” Teresa answered. Red John shook his head slightly at the response; had the Senior Agent allowed for Patrick Jane to control every aspect of her life? Teresa’s earlier lack of resistance toward his single piece of advice toward Luther Wainwright told him everything he had needed to know about her and Patrick’s relationship, really. Patrick’s wearing down of the woman had been more of a blessing than a curse; he remembered when he had been angry that Patrick had shot Dumar Hardy to save Teresa’s life, but in the end, the small little digression from Patrick’s vengeance had made his so-called seduction plans a million times easier.

 

After all, Teresa Lisbon was in love with Patrick Jane; he had noticed her flushed skin, how close the Senior Agent often stood next to Patrick without actually touching him, the darting glances she gave him, and Rebecca had relayed Teresa and Samuel Bosco’s conversation about how Patrick just _solved cases_.

 

Red John had disbelieved the _solving cases_ crack too. Teresa and Patrick had worked together for nine years and feelings, whether one wanted them or not, were bound to happen in some form and at some point within their working relationship. Patrick had always been too focused on his thoughts and feelings for revenge that he had apparently never gotten the chance to fall in _love_ with Teresa, although he had most certainly lusted after her body.

 

And of course, Teresa’s love for Patrick would be her ultimate undoing. It was the one thought that kept running through his brain and he had a feeling that if he played his hand just right, he and Teresa would be in bed together before two weeks were up. Red John wasn’t a stranger to the rituals of seduction, as he had seduced many women; some of them ended up in bed with him, crying out fake monikers into the night and allowing themselves to be used for the _greater good_. Others ended up under his knife, bleeding their lives away for him at his sweet words and caring ministrations.

 

Angela Ruskin-Jane had fallen into the second category, not that Patrick knew it though. The conman’s wife had gotten bored of playing the _trophy wife_ at parties and social functions and had gotten tired of being adorned with bruises, where she would have to feel her husband’s arm wrap around her and she’d have to paint a fake smile across her lips to appease the media that everything was fine between the both of them. Patrick had often spent long periods out of town on the psychic circuit and after his little girl had said goodnight to her Daddy and had been tucked away in her purple sheets, mommy and mommy’s lover would fuck each other in the couple’s master bedroom; the light colored sheets pooled around them both, as he filled her with his length and she moaned out his current moniker.

 

If Patrick had ever figured out that his wife had been unfaithful to him, Red John had never known, as he had slaughtered Angela and Charlotte the following month; after all, there _were_ dire consequences and lessons that needed to be learned for being unfaithful _and_ slandering someone at the same time.

 

            “I’m surprised Agent Wainwright let us out onto the field.” Teresa changed the subject, as she continued to drive into Dustin County. “When you shot Hardy three years ago, Minelli refused to let us go anywhere without speaking to Carmen first.” Red John glanced in her direction to see a grimace on her face. He knew _all_ about Dr. Roy Carmen; the man, who had tried to set Teresa up for the murder of a paroled rapist. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the doctor would have sold his own mother for a better offer, Red John would have approached him about getting Teresa framed for murder and locked away also.

 

Of course, he had a different motive for her arrest than Roy Carmen had, but still.

 

            “Can little boys follow protocol?” Red John asked her and Teresa’s grimace turned into a frown.

 

            “Agent Wainwright is our…”

 

            “Boss, I know.” Red John interrupted. He could have argued with Teresa about Luther Wainwright not being a _proper_ boss, as the kid clearly didn’t have enough experience to be leading the entire CBI anywhere. Wainwright had allowed for Patrick to go on a national television show with the intent to have a serial killer slander another serial killer and it had worked. Patrick had gifted him with another kill to add to his ever-growing list and Red John had gifted Patrick with the cantankerous FBI Agent Susan Darcy, who had been so much fun to stalk and who he had often imagined draining the life from.

 

            “Young or not, you can’t say he isn’tqualified.” Teresa explained and Red John silently agreed with her. He had briefly read up on Agent Wainwright; the little boy had come from a rich background and his parents had given him a top-notch education. He had graduated from the top of the academy, but book smarts and street smarts were two completely different things and Wainwright was not street smart. At all. Red John had a feeling that Patrick had also complained about Wainwright’s qualifications at one point and Teresa had told him the same exact thing, over and over again too.

 

            “Wouldn’t you have been more qualified?” Red John asked, out of curiosity, as Teresa turned into the parking lot of Saint George’s Senior High. Teresa kept quiet, until she had parked the SUV in one of the vacant parking spots and turned the vehicle off.

 

            “I’m not head material, Jane.” Teresa informed him, before she opened her car door and motioned for him to follow after her. “Come on; we’re late enough as it is.”

 

Next to Teresa, Red John pushed open the large double doors to the auditorium of Saint George’s Senior High School with a smile on his face. Despite the fact that they were at a crime scene and somebody had actually died within the hallow halls of a high school, he continued past the wall that blocked his view of the theater with a content hum.

 

The auditorium reminded him of almost every other high school auditorium, except for a few wooden crosses that hung upon the walls; the rows upon rows of blue chairs, the paint-speckled carpet beneath his feet, the California and United States flags displayed proudly along one side of concrete wall with a set of steps on each side, and the glorious stage.

 

Excitement danced up his spine at the sight of the beautiful yellow crime scene tape, which had been stretched from one end of the small stage to the other; the beautiful red curtains swayed from the movement behind them. The idea of viewing a theatrical murder in the flesh and being able to smell the copper tang of blood in the air for his very first case in person with the Serious Crimes Unit thrilled him.

 

Teresa continued past him and Red John followed her half way down the main aisle, before they met Rigsby and Grace. “What do we have?” Teresa questioned the two agents.

 

            “Kirsten Denise Ryder, age twenty-three.” Rigsby informed her with his eyes focused on the notepad before him. “Mr. Joshua Cole, the school’s choir teacher, found Ms. Ryder after he had pulled back the curtains in preparation for their annual spring concert tonight.” Rigsby glanced up, before he continued on. “Mr. Cole promptly shut the curtains to the stage and called 911, hence the reason why the curtains are closed and we’re here.”

 

Lisbon nodded. “Cause and time of death?”

 

            “Time of death, the coroner labels at around two to three this morning. Cause of death though,” Grace chimed in, “you’ll want to see this one for yourself, boss.” Red John caught the brief moment of eye contact between both agents and he almost rolled his eyes, as they all continued up the steps and onto the back area of the well-lit stage. Red John watched Lisbon push aside the black curtain backdrop, until he and she stood on the main stage, surrounded by officers in navy blue and a rather picturesque crime scene.

 

Red John stared at the crime scene, transfixed by the theatrical beauty of it.

 

A white cardboard slab, painted in blood, hung from the shafts of the stage and the setup reminded him vaguely of a magician’s knife trick, except without all of the colorful balloons attached.

 

The presentation before him had used a naked human body—a brunette woman with long, slender legs, a small torso, and firm-looking breasts—instead of the balloons that usually covered the knives.

 

Esthetically, if she had been alive, the woman would have ultimately appealed to him and his sexual desires. Red John had always had a thing for brunettes and red heads and the woman displayed above them all would have been considered for one of his many one-night stands.

 

However now, with fifteen knives having impaled her from behind, she didn’t look so appealing.

 

            “Agent Lisbon, I presume?” Red John glanced away from the crime scene to stare at the newcomer; a navy-uniformed sheriff from Dustin County PD, who seemed slightly uncomfortable at the sight around him. “I’m Sheriff Austin Tyler with the Dustin County PD. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The pretty boy Sheriff shook Teresa’s hand. “Our department doesn’t have quite the manpower to solve this one alone, as murders don’t happen here.”

 

            “Do you put that on tourist brochures?” Red John asked and Sherriff Tyler glanced in his direction, confusion written across his features. Clearly, the Sheriff only had his good looks going for him. “Dustin County: Murder-less Capitol of the World?” He felt Teresa’s narrowed eyes on his profile and he turned his head slightly to offer her a fake apologetic smile, which sedated her momentarily.

 

Of course he wasn’t _truly_ sorry for his comment. The pretty boy Sheriff’s handshake with Teresa had lasted a bit longer than normal and if Teresa got any ideas relating to the Sheriff, his plans would be completely ruined.

 

            “How could you tell our victim was Ms. Ryder?” Teresa asked and the Sheriff rushed to explain.

 

            “Principal Maddock found a blood-stained wallet near the choir room doors.” Sheriff Tyler pointed across the stage, where a hidden door decorated with a cross remained. “Looks as if our murderer might have tried to toss the victim’s identification cards away, as it belongs to a Kirsten Ryder.” Sheriff Tyler waved one of his deputies over, who handed the evidence bagged wallet to Teresa. Red John watched Teresa open the wallet from within the plastic, before she glanced down at the license and back up at the impaled victim with a frown across her face.

 

            “Did you make these assumptions off the blood-stained wallet, Sheriff?” Teresa asked, something darker underlined the tone of her voice and the Sheriff nodded at her with a smile.

 

            “Of course, Agent Lisbon!” Sheriff Tyler responded, brightly. “Who else would this blood-stained wallet belong to?” Teresa looked irritated, not that he could blame her though. Even as a serial killer, he knew jumping to conclusions about the evidence could make or break a case.

 

            “It could belong to our killer, Sheriff.” Lisbon responded, as she passed the evidence-bagged wallet to Grace, who stood behind her. Red John wondered how exactly the Sheriff had been able to identify the victim, especially as the fifteen knives had pierced through young Kirsten’s skin in a symmetrical line down the white slab of cardboard. The Sheriff bowed his head for a moment and Red John refocused his attention on the impaled corpse.  

 

Despite all of the blood that had dried upon the slab, the knives, and the floor below the victim, Red John noticed that the murderer had rammed Kirsten onto the knives before having dragged her body down by the knives until her blood-stained feet dangled feet from the dark, wooden stage floor.

 

Her hazel eyes had been pried wide open, clouded with both fear and death, which made him slyly smile. Red John had always enjoyed seeing fear in a victim’s eyes, both before and after death, even if the murder wasn’t by his own hand.

 

Red John stepped closer to the victim, mindful of the pool of blood around the victim’s final resting spot. His eyes caught sight of the slashes across Kirsten’s pale throat, wrists and ankles, which made him, scoff silently. It had taken the murderer sixteen knives to do what he could have done in just one.

 

_Amateurs_ , he thought. Hadn’t they ever heard of the expression that _less was more_? It was one of the various reasons why he had only killed with one knife; when painting a picture of the same consistency, after all, one didn’t want to change the brush size.

 

            “Notice anything about the victim, Jane?” Rigsby asked and Red John side-eyed him. What kind of question was that? The young agent had eyes, why couldn’t she notice anything? Did the unit continuously rely on Patrick for everything? Patrick was smart, of course, but the man wasn’t perfect; he was flawed also.

 

            “Yes.” Red John answered, coolly. Rigsby met his eyes and raised his eyebrow, which prompted Red John to speak again. “She’s dead.”

 

            “That’s not what I meant.”

 

Red John ignored the agent’s comment. Kirsten’s body was just so much more enjoyable to focus on, rather than answering the dumb questions from a sex deprived man, who was only grumpy because his whore of a girlfriend hadn’t been putting out for him lately.

 

_Her tongue has probably also been cut out_ , Red John realized from the unnatural red shade of the brunette’s lips. The young woman most likely hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut about something important.

 

To Red John, that signified two possible motives for the young woman’s murder.

 

One, Kirsten had found her own self caught up in a drug deal and the killer (or killers, as he hadn’t been able to decide if the person had acted alone or not) had silenced her permanently, in the most gruesome way possible.

 

Or…

 

Two, Kirsten had found her own self mixed up in some sordid love affair with a married man and an angry wife had silenced her husband’s mistress forever, by cutting out her tongue and impaling her with knives.

 

Either way, Kirsten dead and the sight of her battered and knife-ridden body had filled him with a burning sense of nostalgia. Red John wanted to do nothing more than pry one of the scarlet-drenched blades from Kirsten’s bloodless body and have his way with Teresa, but he knew he had to wait. Killing her after she (and various members of the Serious Crimes Unit) had flagged possible concerns about him in the back of their minds would have ended the game long before it could have even begun.

 

_Patience, after all,_ he thought with a soft smile, _is a virtue._

 

Teresa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Where’s Mr. Cole or Principal Maddock right now?”

 

            “I had them sent to the choir room, ma’am.” The Sheriff pointed toward the now barely hidden door, which made Red John roll his eyes. If the Sheriff _wanted_ to flirt with Teresa and gain her attention, the man was going about it all wrong. Teresa needed somebody to put her in her place; not somebody, like the pretty boy sheriff, who would allow her to remain indecisive in her decisions. Red John would teach the sheriff how one was supposed to handle Teresa, if only to get the message across that Teresa was _his_.

 

            “Has anyone questioned either the principal or the choir teacher yet?” Grace and Rigsby shook their heads at Teresa’s question.

 

            “Cho was waiting for you; he’s in the choir room.” Teresa nodded and moved past the body. Red John followed her into the medium-sized choir room, where a set of pale risers belonged, along with Cho and two other individuals.

 

Red John watched Cho greet his boss with a brief nod, before Teresa turned to the two individuals, who both seemed slightly anxious.

 

            “Which one of you is Principal Maddock?” The woman, a petite blonde with a slight overbite and who wore a pink cardigan paired with tan pants, raised her hand into the hair. Red John could tell that the blonde had been crying, as the skin around her eyes held a slight puff to them and he couldn’t believe the audacity of the principal. Death, whether anyone liked it or not, happened and there was nothing any of them could do about it. Her crying over the death of someone she probably didn’t even know, in his opinion, made her completely worthless to the investigation.

 

            “That would be me, Principal Amanda Maddock. Officer…?” The blonde trailed off in her sentence, the twang of a southern accent colored her voice, as she continued to focus on Teresa.

 

            “Agent Lisbon with the California Bureau of Investigation.” Teresa answered. The Senior Agent flashed both individuals her badge, who both nodded in understanding. “Behind me, Agent Van Pelt, Agent Rigsby, and Agent Cho and next to me is Mr. Jane, our consultant.”

 

            “You mean like the local branch of the FBI?” The male beside Amanda Maddock spoke, wire-framed glasses perched on his button-like nose. Red John looked Joshua Cole over; he was a young brunette and much like his boss, also dressed professionally with a short-sleeved polo and tan pants. Teresa nodded, before she brought her attention back on the principal.

 

            “Before today, had you ever seen the victim before?” Amanda furrowed her brows, before she pulled her bottom lip under her top teeth. Red John waited for her answer, as he brought his arms against his chest in impatience. Was it really _that_ difficult to answer the question of whether you knew the victim or not? “Or does the name Kirsten Ryder sound familiar to you?”

 

Amanda shook her head, after a few more moments of silence. “I’ve never heard the name before.”

 

            “Is it possible that Kirsten was once a student here?” Amanda let out a watery chuckle at Teresa’s question, which brought her a few stares. “Why is that funny, ma’am?”

 

            “You’re asking a Senior High School principal to recall the names of all her students from the past, Lisbon.” Red John commented, dryly. “Even for you, that’s a little daft.” The room fell completely silent and Red John managed to keep the smirk off his face. He enjoyed putting women in their place almost as much as he enjoyed slitting their throats.   “Most of us can’t remember what we ate last Tuesday for lunch, let alone the names of every student who passes through the halls of this fine establishment.” Patrick’s sarcasm had always been easy to craft, it had just taken a small amount of time to fine tune the underlying insults. He had always been direct with his accomplices and subtle insults had never been needed, as his accomplices usually knew that they were idiots.

 

Amanda cleared her throat, awkwardly. “If it would help, I have school records that I could bring up. Our new record system goes back as far as 1999.”

 

            “That would be extremely helpful.” Teresa answered. Red John blinked in disbelief at her ignorance of him, as the Sherriff disappeared with Amanda into the small choir room office. Nobody had ever ignored him before and it filled him with rage. He had gone out of his way to appreciate Teresa, to show her that he cared and wanted her, only for her to completely ignore it and him?

 

_She’s going to thank me for this_ ; Red John thought with his eyes on her back, _all women do eventually_.

 

            “And you must be Mr. Cole?” Teresa turned to the choir teacher, who nodded. “Can you tell us what you saw when you found Ms. Ryder?”

 

            “He saw a dead body, Lisbon.” Red John responded. “What more could he have possibly seen? The murderer holding a neon sign, declaring: ‘ _Here I Am! Come arrest me!_ ’?” Red John scoffed; no wonder the Serious Crimes Unit had yet been able to apprehend him; they were asking all of the wrong questions. “Do you know the…”

 

            “Jane.” Teresa interrupted him, hastily. She didn’t turn around to face him, which filled him with even more anger. “I apologize for my colleague, Mr. Cole.”

 

Joshua waved it off. “I deal with high school students, Agent Lisbon. Some days, even here, the students can become disgruntled with me.” Joshua chuckled, before he spoke again with a more somber tone. “Tonight is…” he paused to take a small breath. “…was…our annual spring concert; the auditorium hadn’t been used since yesterday afternoon by the drama department, who had just finished a final production of something Phil Raleigh wrote and produced for his students.” Teresa nodded. “Anyway, I stepped onto the dark stage to make sure that the drama department had put everything back; we all share the stage, after all. Nothing seemed out of place in the backroom, until I noticed that the backdrop curtain hadn’t been closed completely and I moved to close them when I felt something hard.”

            “Out of curiosity, I walked to the stage and turned the floodlights on only to find the body. I promptly locked my students in the room and called Amanda.” Red John noticed the platinum wedding band around Joshua’s ring finger with interest. Young Kirsten could have been with Joshua and Amanda had found out, hence the reason for the tears.

 

            “You and Amanda seem awfully cozy with one another.” Red John idly pointed out. He glanced in the direction of the brightly lit choir office, the glass was see-through and his eyes caught the various trophies sitting within the room. Joshua smiled brightly. “Is there something you’re not telling us, Mr. Cole?”

 

            “Is this question even pertinent to our current investigation, Jane?” Teresa asked, as she turned to face him.

 

            “Joshua found the body, Lisbon.” Red John said, pretending that Teresa was a small child, who couldn’t comprehend various things. “It is always possible that he had an affair with Ms. Ryder and Principal Maddock found out; jealousy, after all, is a motive and stabbings are a crime of passion.” Red John glanced at Joshua, who wore a deep frown.

 

            “Before you go down that rabbit hole,” Joshua responded with his arms against his chest. “Amanda and I have been married for six years this July; I have never been unfaithful and Amanda is expecting our first child.” Red John said nothing. Although, Amanda’s worthless tears made more sense; the woman was pregnant and probably hormonal. “The very idea that I would cheat on my wife is blasphemous, Mr. Jane.”

 

            “It’s a question that has to be asked.” Teresa simply stated and Joshua glanced in her direction. “It’s just standard procedure, Mr. Cole.”

 

            “I don’t insult easily, Agent Lisbon, but I don’t want my marriage ruined over such baseless accusations.” Joshua replied. “I love my wife.” Red John opened his mouth to point out that _Amanda_ could have killed Kirsten out of jealousy, but Amanda and the Sherriff returned before he could. Amanda’s shaking arms were full of papers, which she quickly passed over to Teresa. Joshua’s arm slipped around his wife’s waist and he pulled her closer. “She went here, didn’t she?”

 

Amanda nodded, tears filling her eyes. “Class of 2007. I remember her now.” Hormones or not, Red John thought the principal’s act was a little over the top. “Kirsten Ryder was a shy student, who received decent grades; she never caused any problems, until the very end of her high school career.”

 

            “How so?” Teresa asked.

 

            “Kirsten became pregnant.” Joshua continued for his wife, who nodded in agreement. “I never had her in class, but I remember hearing the students’ gossip about the pregnant senior.”

 

            “No offense ma’am,” Grace cut into the conversation, “but how do you not remember a pregnant teenager within a Catholic school setting? Pregnancies around here, I’m sure, have to be pretty uncommon.”

 

Amanda shook her head. “It’s a reoccurring myth that our school belongs to the Catholic or Christian faith, especially with the crosses all over the auditorium right now.”

 

            “If you aren’t Catholic or Christian,” Red John voiced, “then what are you?”

 

            “We’re a school that accepts all faiths.” Joshua replied and Amanda nodded. “Usually, the auditorium isn’t decorated with crosses, but Phil left them…” Before Joshua had the chance to explain, the door to the choir room flew open and crashed into a wooden bookshelf along the white wall. Red John glanced at the brunette man, who stood within the doorway of the choir room with his fists clenched tightly together in anger.

 

            “And I would have taken them down eventually!” The brunette male exclaimed, before he turned to the principal. “Damn it, Amanda! You didn’t need to get the cops involved for something so trivial!”

 

Joshua scowled. “Not everything is about you or your drama department, Raleigh.” Red John glanced between the two males in amusement. Phil Raleigh, a pale and jittery drama teacher, really thought he could take on Joshua Cole in front of the CBI? Teresa looked ready to intervene when Phil took a step closer to both Joshua and Amanda.

 

            “You’re still bitter that your _precious_ wife chose to give my department more money than yours.” Phil ranted with a matching scowl across his features. “Just because your kids can win various choir concerts doesn’t mean that your wife doesn’t see the values in drama programs.” Phil turned to Teresa. “I’ll take the damned crosses down, okay? God, everyone makes such a huge deal over _three_ forgotten crosses.”

 

Phil’s erratic behavior amused him highly. The youthful brunette was clearly on something, especially from the way he kept challenging a pregnant woman and her husband in front of the CBI, but Red John couldn’t tell if the substance was alcohol or not.

 

Either way, Phil Raleigh had something to do with Kirsten’s death.

 

            “Mr. Raleigh, I presume?” Teresa asked and Phil nodded. “We’re not here about the crosses. We’re here about the murder of Kirsten Ryder; the young woman who was impaled on the stage.”

 

Red John waited for Phil to react to the news. The man did, even though his reaction was delayed by a few seconds.

 

            “Dead?” Phil asked in a hushed whisper and Teresa nodded. “Oh god, who would do such a heartless act to such a troubled soul?”

 

_You and whoever helped you_ , Red John replied back to Phil’s question in his head. A stiff breeze looked as if it would have blown Phil over and if the man had been intoxicated, the man would have never been able to lift Kirsten up by himself.

 

Not that he would tell Teresa or her unit that though.

 

            “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Mr. Raleigh.” Teresa said. “Did you know Ms. Ryder well?” Phil nodded.

 

“Kirsten had been in my drama classes. If it hadn’t been for her unfortunate pregnancy, she would have gone far outside of these halls.” Phil glanced at his shoes. “I can’t believe she’s dead. I just saw her last Tuesday night too.” Red John realized that the man was either telling the truth or he was an exceptional liar, although, he couldn’t tell which one Phil really was though.

 

            “Where?” Teresa asked, as she removed her notepad.

 

            “The local pharmacy in town; Weaseco. Kirsten had been paying for a pregnancy test.” Phil answered.

 

            “Another pregnancy?” Amanda gasped and Phil nodded. “That poor child.”

 

            “I asked her how things had been going and how her child was doing; she told me that she had miscarried, before she paid for her item and rushed out of the store.” Amanda’s loud gasp filled the room, which didn’t surprise him. No pregnant woman wanted to hear about the miscarriage of another woman’s baby. “I quickly followed her from the store and watched her get into a silver Toyota with tinted windows.”

 

_He’s lying_ , Red John realized. Too many details, without being prompted, signified a well-crafted lie.

 

Teresa nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Raleigh.” Phil nodded again.

 

            “Anything to help out.” Phil responded. “I just hope you’ll find whoever did this to Kirsten.”

 

            “We will.” Teresa promised. Red John watched her glance between the three. “Did Ms. Ryder have any family around here?”

 

            “All of the information for Kirsten is in the papers I’ve handed you.” Amanda replied, while she motioned toward the papers in Teresa’s grasp. “If her parents have moved away since graduation though; I’m not sure how much help those papers will be.”

 

            “Thank you, Principal Maddock.” Teresa stated, before she turned to stare at Joshua, who still had his arm wrapped around his wife. “Who has access to the auditorium?”

 

            “Well,” Joshua began. “I, Amanda, Phil and the custodial staff all have keys.”

 

            “However,” Phil added. “Anybody could have gotten into the auditorium last night or this morning; the doors were unlocked to allow the custodial staff easier access into cleaning the carpets before the choir concert tonight and anybody could have slipped in.”

 

Joshua nodded in agreement.

 

            “You will all understand the need for my last question then.” Teresa continued. “Where were you three at around two am this morning?”

 

 

            “I was with Josh.” Amanda gave, sheepishly. Joshua nodded again. “We had early wake up calls this morning, Agent Lisbon.”

 

            “And you, Mr. Raleigh?” Teresa turned her attention to the lying Phil Raleigh, who merely smiled in their direction.

 

            “Out with my girlfriend, Nicole Wright.” Phil answered. “We both ended up at Cockatoo’s, a local bar in town, until at least one am and then, we both went home to sleep.”

 

Teresa nodded. “We’ll need Ms. Wright’s number.”

 

            “Of course, ma’am.” Phil rattled off the phone number, which Teresa wrote down. “Is that all?”

 

            “Yeah,” Teresa answered. “For now, anyway.”

 

Amanda and Joshua dismissed themselves into Joshua’s office, while Phil hurried from the choir room, which left the CBI and Sheriff Tyler alone.

             

Teresa turned to him, a small frown across her lips. “Any thoughts, Jane?” Red John nodded; he thought Teresa had absolutely no intelligence or common sense, as the woman had completely believed all of Phil’s lies. Teresa stared at him. “I’m not trying to push you into speaking your mind, but maybe sharing with the class will help us out. We do have a murder to solve, after all.”

 

“Were you not paying attention, Lisbon?” Red John sardonically asked, as he smiled in her direction. Teresa’s dark eyebrows shot up into her bangs. “We have a dead body, fifteen knives that impaled our victim and all you want to know is if their alibis have checked out?” Red John rolled his eyes, as he continued to speak. “Please tell me how you became Senior Agent of the Serious Crimes Unit again, Agent Lisbon.” Teresa narrowed her green eyes. In the pocket of her jacket, he watched her place the notebook away, before she crossed her arms against her chest.

 

“Excuse me?” Teresa asked with her eyes still narrowed on him and he continued to smile. Teresa just couldn’t get, could she? The proper response to his comments was a thank you, not some comment that made him explain himself. Red John didn’t explain himself to anyone.

 

“You heard me, didn’t you?” Red John retorted, dryly. Even if her reaction wasn’t what he wanted, the sight of her being angry thrilled him. It had been so long since he had caught sight of a truly outraged Teresa Lisbon. Her green eyes sparked with electricity and he felt his body reacting in a pleasurable way. Of course, Patrick would have also found Teresa’s anger stimulating; he was a masochist, after all. “Unless you’re hard of hearing too and this wouldn't surprise me." Red John watched her body tremble; the breasts beneath her light blue collared shirt moved slightly with every staggering breath she took, which he wanted to cup within his own hands and mold them into his liking. He refused to stop though. Her anger, to him, was like a sexual climax: it needed to spill from her and she needed to scream and it needed to dilute everyone around them, before he could be completely satisfied. “You completely ignored the facts and made meaningless conjecture off the information that anybody could enter into the auditorium.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, before he continued on. “Why would anyone, let alone the staff, leave the doors to a high school unlocked? Can you imagine the amount of graffiti come morning?” Red John shook his head with a bitter laugh. “Either the principal, the choir teacher, or the drama teacher is lying.”

 

            “You’re way out of line, Jane!” Teresa gritted out from her clenched teeth.

 

Red John shook his head again. Had Teresa forgotten that she had asked him for his thoughts? If she had forgotten, he was going to remind her. “I’m not finished yet. You asked me for my thoughts and I can’t help it if you don’t like what I’m saying.” Years ago, Teresa would have punched Patrick in the face for such comments. He remembered watching the conversation that the two had held in the elevator years ago; Teresa had hauled off and punched Patrick in the nose for lying to her.

 

Now though, Teresa was as tame as a house cat and he was safe from her wrath.

 

            “Did the amounts of alcohol you consumed over the past weekend cause a relapse in your skills, Agent?” Red John stated. “If so, a trip to Alcoholics Anonymous might be needed.” The team and Sherriff said nothing, as he turned to face them. “I’ve got better things to do than be your human lie detector, so I’ll be leaving now.” With that, he left them all in the choir room; the largest smile still on his face, as the late May heat and overcast sun hit his face.

 

Red John could only imagine the looks of confusion, surprise, and irritation from the team, as he moved toward the CBI’s dark SUV and leaned against the heated vehicle, which filled him with more glee.

 

Amy’s suicide, while ultimately tragic, had been the best thing to happen for him and to Patrick Jane and the man’s slowly “deteriorating” sanity.

* * *

 

Lisbon watched Jane leave the choir room with wide eyes, as she continued to clench her teeth together out of pure anger and humiliation. Out of everything she had expected him to say, she had never expected him to spew such spiteful words about her in the presence of her team and various others.

 

Her cheeks burned brightly and she tried to take a deep breath to calm herself, but the deep inhale only made her angrier, as she moved to clench her hands into fists.

 

_If so, a trip to Alcoholics Anonymous might be needed_. The echoes of his words resonated in her mind. How had the man known that she had been drinking over the weekend? Jane knew many things about her, as he could apparently read her like a book, but she doubted that the man could tell when (or if) anybody had a drop to drink past twenty-four hours by just looking at them.

 

Lisbon also doubted that her team would believe Jane’s comments, as they knew he loved to say things without thinking, but she didn’t want anyone else (especially the Dustin County Sheriff) to believe that she was an alcoholic. 

 

Slowly, she turned to face her team; she knew her cheeks were still burning and the team could probably tell that Jane’s words had affected her on some level, as they all seemed surprised (even though it was hard to tell with Cho) and outraged at Jane’s words.

 

            “Boss…” Van Pelt began with a hint of concern in her tone. Lisbon quieted the Junior Agent with a firm glare, before she started to speak. 

 

            “Cho, Rigsby.” Both men glanced at her. “Go speak with Kirsten’s parents. If they don’t live in the same house, ask around. Take Van Pelt with you.” Cho and Rigsby said nothing, as they accepted the papers from her and left the room. “Van Pelt.” The young woman glanced back up from the floor to meet her eyes, “check Mr. Raleigh’s alibi.” She would have asked Van Pelt to check the alibis of Amanda Maddock and Joshua Cole, but as they were each other’s alibi, it made things much more complicated for everyone involved. Lisbon quickly handed Van Pelt the lone sheet of paper that she had written Nicole Wright’s number on, before the redheaded agent hurried after Cho and Rigsby.  She was thankful that the team hadn’t made a huge deal out of Jane’s words and had allowed her to continue on, as if nothing had been said at all.

 

Sherriff Tyler was a different story, however.

 

            “Agent Lisbon, I don’t want to sound condoning.” The Sheriff began and Lisbon met his eyes, hoping to convey the message that she didn’t want to discuss her rogue consultant. Jane was a problem, he always had been, but she didn’t need someone else telling her how they thought that she should handle them. “But you should really control that consultant of yours; he’s a near menace.”

 

Lisbon couldn’t take it anymore; she had always prided herself on her ability to stay calm, but she knew that if she stayed with the Sherriff anymore, she’d lose her temper. With a deep breath, she opened her mouth to address him.

 

            “I think we’re done here, Sheriff Tyler.” The Sherriff nodded and Lisbon hurried out the door. Her behavior had been unprofessional, especially in front of other law enforcement individuals, but Jane’s disrespect had to be dealt with. Lately, she had been trying to pull back her iron fist and allow for him to trust her more, but if he was going to continue pulling crap like _that_ , she knew she had to do or say something.

 

In the parking lot, heated by the overcast May sun, she found Jane.

 

Jane leaned against the CBI-issued SUV, his eyes were closed and he wore a smug smile, which pissed her off even more. She hurriedly unlocked the door to the SUV and threw herself into the driver’s seat, fully prepared to lock the vehicle again and keep the consultant from going anywhere with her, when the passenger door opened and Jane slumped into the passenger seat.

 

She stared at him for a minute; the dark suit still looked wrong on him and his smug smile made her want to punch him. Lisbon waited for him to pull on his seatbelt, before she narrowed her eyes at him.

 

            “What in the hell was that?” Lisbon exclaimed, as she fought against her urge to wring his damned neck. Jane shrugged and she gritted her teeth together again. He had no valid reason to be mad at her, unless…Lisbon nearly lost her anger. Jane had never held grudges against her and she honestly hoped that his horrible comments weren’t because of their fight last Friday night.

 

_Either way,_ Lisbon thought, _I have to ask._

 

            “If you’re angry with me for last Friday night, just tell me. Okay?” Jane remained quiet and she hit her hand against the steering wheel, which made the horn sound in protest. “Damn it, Jane! Do you know how much you humiliated me in there?” She waited for him to say anything in response, but after a few minutes, it became perfectly clear that Jane wasn’t about to answer her.

 

            “Of course.” She muttered, dryly. “You don’t care. What a surprise.” Jane had always ignored the needs of everyone else for his own and she absolutely hated it.

 

            “Automatically assuming I don’t care Lisbon, is pretty heartless.” Jane replied with his eyes on her and she closed her eyes for a moment, in an attempt to regain a semblance of calm. If she hit Jane again, the bureau would probably see fit to make her continue going to anger management classes and she didn’t want that at all. “You can close your eyes all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you missed things in there.” Lisbon’s eyes flew open.

 

_Anger management or not,_ she decided with a scowl, _I’m going to deck him._

 

 “Not all of us can be cold bastards like you, Jane.” Jane lost his smug smile. “I’m sorry that I can’t just automatically suspect someone without asking the necessary questions first.”

 

“Guilty till proven innocent.” Jane tried to argue.

 

Lisbon opened her mouth to rebuke Jane, when her phone vibrated against her chest. Relieved and annoyed, she pulled the phone from her breast pocket and held it against her ear.

 

            “Lisbon.” She greeted.

 

            “Agent Lisbon, Agent Wainwright here.” Lisbon stifled her groan at his voice. Wainwright had said that he would call _later_ in the day, not almost four hours after she had last spoken to him. She and Jane were in the middle of a fight and while she couldn’t tell her boss to call back, she almost wished that she had ignored the phone in favor of continuing her rant to Jane. “Is this a bad time to talk?”

 

            “Not at all, sir.” Lisbon lied. She feared that Wainwright’s call wasn’t about Amy’s suicide, but more about Jane’s behavior nearly fifteen minutes ago. If any officer at the crime scene had found their behavior wayward, Lisbon knew that they had the right to report misconduct at a crime scene to the head agent, which would have been Agent Wainwright.

 

            “Good.” Wainwright responded. He sounded disgruntled, which didn’t help her nerves at all. “Is Jane with you?” Lisbon almost wanted to ask him where else he thought Jane would be, considering that the consultant had made himself into her constant shadow.

 

            “He is.” Lisbon answered.

 

            “This makes my job much easier then.” Wainwright said and Lisbon almost asked him why, when he continued on. “Could you put yourself and Jane on?” Lisbon quickly put her phone on speak phone, before she set the device between herself and Jane. “How is your current case going?”

 

            “The case is fine,” Lisbon admitted. “Dustin County PD is giving us full cooperation into investigating Kirsten Ryder’s death. I’ve got my unit following leads now.”

 

            “I’m sure you both are rather anxious to get back to your case, so I’ll hurry this conversation along.” Wainwright gave and Lisbon nodded, although she knew he couldn’t see it. “I just finished a meeting with the attorney general, who made me aware of the charges that the Child’s family is filing against the CBI. It probably doesn’t come of much surprise that the family is filing for emotional distress.”

 

Jane scoffed from next to her. “The Child’s are ridiculous for even trying to bring this case to trial.” Lisbon silently agreed with him, even in her anger; she had tried to talk Amy down from committing suicide, but nothing good had come from it.

 

            “A family lost both of their daughters, Mr. Jane.” Wainwright responded. The head sounded frustrated with Jane, which she couldn’t blame him for. Jane just couldn’t leave anything alone. “Everybody deals with grief differently and if this is how the Child’s family wants to proceed with their grief, we have no say.” Lisbon waited for Jane to brush the comment off, as she knew Jane didn’t find the man worth his time or energy to reply back to.

 

            “You don’t think I don’t know that?” Lisbon glanced at Jane, who wore a dark grimace. Jane usually kept his anger in check around the upper management of the CBI, as heartless comments from management weren’t anything new to anyone. Angry or not, she was concerned—why had the one comment made him snap? She wished that she had been able to see Wainwright’s face, as she was sure that the man was just as surprised as she was.

 

            “Jane.” Lisbon admonished, wearily. She didn’t want to start another fight with Jane by stepping on his toes, but he needed to respect the boss; just because the various other members of the CBI found Wainwright to be too childlike, didn’t mean that they all had to treat or see him like that.

           

            “It’s alright, Agent Lisbon.” Wainwright replied, after a few moments of silence. “Mr. Jane is entitled to his opinion.”

 

            “See, Lisbon?” Jane asked her. “I’m entitled to my own opinion. Agent Wainwright agrees with me.” Lisbon narrowed her eyes at him again and watched his grimace turn into a bright smile.

 

            “I never said I agreed, Jane.” Wainwright corrected himself and before Jane could pester the man further, he continued to speak. “I asked the attorney general and Brenda Shettrick for options on how we should continue further.” Lisbon already had a feeling that somebody (probably the attorney general, as the man disliked Jane with a passion) had brought up the idea of not allowing either of them to continue fieldwork. “I was told by Brenda that not allowing you and Mr. Jane to solve cases would cause a media backlash…”

 

            “And we wouldn’t want that.” Jane stated, sarcastically. If she hadn’t been restrained by her seatbelt, she would have elbowed him in the chest.

 

Wainwright continued on, as if Jane hadn’t interrupted him. “…and the best way to handle the possible media and community backlash is to let it be known that you and Mr. Jane tried to stop Ms. Child’s.” Lisbon grimaced. Even if Brenda could sway the media and community into believing that they had tried to stop Amy from committing suicide, both outlets would still thirst for their blood. “If the lawsuit had gone to court, we would have used the footage that Frank and Tylor Gibbons had recorded of the main foyer, but they erased the footage.” She almost cursed. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with stopping the two, she could have stopped them from erasing the tapes in the moments before their arrests.

 

            “Where does that leave us then?” Lisbon asked, almost hesitantly. She had been suspended enough in the last two years, mainly because of Jane and his secret ploys to catch Red John, to know that Bertram only cared about the CBI and not about any of its employees.

 

            “I know the regular protocol is to have a psychologist sign off on you,” Wainwright started and Lisbon sharply inhaled. The idea of sitting before another Roy Carmen and having her coffee drugged again made her wish for suspension instead. “However, I can’t follow regular protocol this time.” Lisbon raised an eyebrow in question. “I’ve read enough files and incident reports to know that having a psychologist sign off on either of you is a bad idea, especially after what happened with Carmen.”

 

            “At least we know I’d be signed off on though.” Jane stated. Lisbon rolled her eyes. Anybody who said Jane was _fine_ deserved to be suspected of something inky too, mainly because the man had never been _just_ fine. “So, what will we be doing?”

 

            “I request that you both speak briefly with the FBI psychologist, Dr. Michelle Carwin.” Lisbon stifled her groan again. “However, I’m not going to set up appointments for you both.” Wainwright’s methods, if Virgil had still been around the CBI, would have gotten the youngest boss odd looks. “The Director of the FBI has allowed for Dr. Carwin and a few of her associates to come in and teach a seminar on suicide to our bureau; it’s important that you and your unit are there, Agent Lisbon.”

 

            “Of course, sir. We’ll all be there.” Lisbon hoped that the suicide seminar was nothing like the sexual harassment seminar; otherwise no one would take it very seriously. “Did you need anything else?”

 

            “No.” Wainwright responded. “Good luck on your case, Agent. Jane.” Lisbon disconnected the call, before she glanced up toward the ceiling of the CBI-issued SUV. Why couldn’t things just be easy?

 

            “Don’t worry about it, Lisbon.” Jane broke the silence and she put the vehicle into reverse without responding to him, as it wasn’t worth her time or energy. 


	6. Chapter 6

**6—**

 

“Boss?” Lisbon glanced up from the Ryder file, as Van Pelt briefly knocked on her office door and stuck her purple hairband head into the room with a slight frown. The Junior Agent looked visibly distressed, which made Lisbon set down her file and go into a fret of silent worrying; she tried to tell herself that Van Pelt was fine and that the young woman had only come to give her information on their case, but it didn’t stop the worry from slowly creeping in.

 

            “Van Pelt?” Lisbon asked, once the redheaded agent stepped into her office and took a seat. “Did you need something?” Van Pelt nodded. Lisbon watched the young woman work her bottom lip between her top teeth, which meant that whatever she had to say wasn’t going to be good news or related to their case at all.

 

            “I’m worried about Jane, boss.” Van Pelt replied and Lisbon let out a small sigh. “His behavior is starting to concern us all.” She couldn’t argue with Van Pelt’s statement. It had been almost two weeks since the three day weekend and Jane’s semi-personality change and she still had no idea what was going on with him. Lisbon nodded for her subordinate to continue on, mainly because she needed more information on the matter. She had asked the team to keep an eye on Jane, which made her feel better knowing that somebody had an eye on him (and his subsequent mental health).

“He’s been leaving the vest off in his three-piece suits. He’s been oddly helpful with paperwork lately, and Rigsby caught him drinking coffee yesterday morning.” Lisbon’s frown deepened at each change given to her from Van Pelt. Before Amy’s suicide, Jane had hated paperwork and he had often complained about the lack of health benefits in coffee, which made her question when he had changed his mind. “He also said to me: ‘ _is that top felt?_ ’I said no and he said ‘ _would you like it to be?_ ’?” The Junior Agent’s cheeks went scarlet and Lisbon refrained from rolling her eyes. As much as she cared for her youngest agent, Van Pelt had the tendency to believe that everything was a pick-up line. 

 

Of course, with the death of her fiancé Craig O’Laughlin, Van Pelt probably hadn’t been too aware of what a pick-up line was and wasn’t from another male.

 

            “I’m sure he’s just being his usual Jane-self, Grace.” Lisbon tried to soothe the fears from the redheaded agent. She had a gut feeling that Jane would eventually be fine, only if they just gave him the time and allowed for him to escape from whatever funk he had buried himself in. “If anything was truly a concern, I’d step in and do something about it.”

 

And she would. 

 

His abnormal wearing of three-piece suits, his cooperation to do paperwork and his drinking of coffee hadn’t been the only things to set off several red flags. Jane’s off-kilter behavior had included the demeaning of her in front of her team and Sheriff Tyler at the beginning of the Ryder case, his semi-good behavior with the lack of usual ploys to discover that young Kirsten was a prostitute, and other various things that weren’t Jane-like at all. Jane had obviously never been a saint, but his lack of secret keeping had begun to grate on her nerves and if she hadn’t known any better, she would have believed that the man had lost his memory again.

 

Van Pelt nodded, stood and left before she left the office, before Lisbon tapped her fingers against the surface of her desk. Was it possible to have a relapse in memory loss? His amnesia, she had thought, had completely faded away with the reminder of Red John’s work on the wall to his master bedroom, but it didn’t mean that a recent tragedy—Amy’s suicide—hadn’t triggered any negative consequences in his mental health.

 

Lisbon remembered the vague words from Dr. Carwin at the seminar Wainwright had ordered them all to go to days go: _“Hopelessness is what happens when we know long know who we truly are, Mr. Jane.”_. She didn’t want to be too concerned about Jane, as he had a habit of acting odd, but she feared that his continuing behavior would encourage him to try and do something stupid.

 

Slowly, she picked up her office phone and hit 9 to dial out. The phone rang three times in her ear, before the automatic service greeted her.

 

            “Welcome to Sacramento General Hospital. Our hours are currently nine to five. We’re the premiere hospital in the greater Sacramento area. If this is an emergency, press one. If not, hold on and you will be connected with someone shortly.”

 

 

Lisbon sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. It was going to be a long day, especially as they still had to speak again with Nicole Wright.

* * *

 

            “Thank you for speaking with us again, Ms. Wright.” Lisbon greeted the well-dressed brunette woman of thirty-years. Nicole Wright shook Lisbon’s hand with a smile, before she and Jane claimed their seats in front of Nicole’s paper cluttered desk. “We won’t keep you long; as I’m sure you’re busy.”

 

Nicole nodded as she brushed the imaginary lint off her buttoned-up striped collared shirt. “We’ll be doing a tent sale in a few days. I’m just finishing the final preparations.” Lisbon nodded. “Are you here about that poor girl’s death again? I told the other agents everything I already knew about her.” Lisbon had sent Van Pelt and Cho to the _Do It Wright_ car dealership after Phil Raleigh’s alibi had provided them with more questions than answers and according to the two, Nicole had been more than helpful to provide them with everything that they had needed.

 

Unfortunately, Lisbon had learned that overly helpful individuals were the ones who had something to hide, and Nicole Wright hadn’t been the exception to that rule.

 

From Kirsten Ryder’s roommate, Katherine Perrot, they had learned that the adjacent corner outside of Nicole’s _Do It Wright_ car dealership had been the area that Kirsten (or Ruby Jewel; a name the young woman had called herself) had chosen in soliciting prospective clients, three nights a week.

 

When Lisbon had pulled up to the dealership, Jane had immediately pointed out that it was completely possible for Nicole to have exchanged heated words with Kirsten, who had most likely been luring away Nicole’s prospective business clients via her body and cheap sex.

 

            “Do you know a woman by the name of Ruby Jewel?” Lisbon redirected her questioning from Kirsten’s birth name to the woman’s stage name. Nicole shook her head, slowly. “Are you sure? Because Ruby Jewel stood opposite of your car dealership, three nights a week.”

 

            “Do you know how many women stand opposite of my car dealership, three nights a week?” Nicole asked, dryly.

 

            “Enough?” Jane guessed from beside her and Nicole nodded. “Does solicitation happen often here?”

 

            “Considering I sell medium-to-high price ranged cars, I would say yes.” Nicole answered. “It’s not unusual to find a slut working the corners in this town though, especially as the economy crash has taken half of the town with it.” Lisbon nodded again. Dustin County had once been a thriving mechanical town, full of car dealerships and repair shops, but now, it was just a ghost town with one or two mechanics and only Nicole’s dealership. “I’m surprised Sheriff Tyler didn’t tell you about the prostitute problem, considering he’s hauled a few away from here in handcuffs before. I don’t tolerate the idea of anyone gaining sex off of my prospective buyers, Agent.”

 

            “Not to mention prostitution is illegal.” Jane pointed out and Nicole nodded again. “Unless you’re in Amsterdam, of course. They have health insurance.” Lisbon turned her head to stare at him in scorn, before she refocused her attention on Nicole.

 

            “I’m trying to run the last honest car dealership here.” Nicole explained. “I don’t need anyone ruining the reputation of myself, my employees, or of my business.” Lisbon almost wanted to ask the young front runner about her employees, as nobody had greeted them on the way in. “It shouldn’t surprise anyone that _Do It Wright_ is going to become a national chain car dealership soon…”

 

            “Why shouldn’t it surprise us?” Jane interrupted Nicole. Nicole didn’t seem thrilled that the consultant had interrupted her. “You’re clearly the only employee here and the women on the street corner are enhancing your revenue, not decreasing it.”

 

            “Those _women_ on the street corner,” Nicole spat with scorn and Lisbon eyed her in surprise, “are nothing more than crack addicts, who are too lazy to get normal jobs.” Nicole stood from her desk and threw her arms up in the air. “I worked hard to get where I am, Agent. I never once had to show a breast or open my legs to get where I am today.” Lisbon doubted that, especially with the way that the young woman leaned forward and had one button on her top undone.

 

            “Did you ever have an altercation with one of these women?” Lisbon questioned and Nicole shrugged.

 

            “It depends on how you define altercation.” Nicole explained at Lisbon’s inquisitive look. “A few weeks ago, one of the _women_ and I screamed at each other.” Lisbon stared at Nicole. If Nicole hadn’t known any of her soliciting neighbors, it was possible that the brunette was telling the truth. “I found one of the women, a brunette dressed in a gaudy red and white outfit with sparkles everywhere, trying to break into one of my vehicles on the lot. It was nothing violent; I just told her that if she didn’t stop it, I’d call the Sheriff.”

 

Jane scoffed. “Some prostitute breaks into one of your vehicles and…”

 

            “She tried, Mr. Jane.” Nicole corrected him without blinking. “There’s a difference between actually trying and actually doing.” Nicole brought her arms against her chest, which only enhanced her chest more. “Am I a suspect or are you this rude to everyone?” Nicole’s blue eyes narrowed slightly, as she continued to smile.

 

            “He’s only asking questions crucial to the investigation, ma’am.” Lisbon said. She hoped that her words would put a buffer between Nicole and Jane, as arresting Nicole would probably flood the entire CBI with a team of snooty lawyers. The fact that most car dealerships had a team of snooty, rich lawyers tucked away somewhere in their pockets made Lisbon wish that any murder related back to car dealerships weren’t allowed to happen. “Why didn’t you mention this altercation to Agent Van Pelt or Agent Cho when they had asked if you had been in any fights lately?”

 

            “I haven’t punched anyone.” Nicole stated with a shrug and Lisbon wasn’t sure if the woman was telling the truth. “I exchanged harsh words with some prostitute, who left right afterwards.” Lisbon opened her mouth to say something when Nicole’s desk phone rang loudly and with a quick apology, Nicole cradled the phone to her ear. “Hello…I said _blue_ not _red_ …yes, there is a difference…between you and me, who owns this business...exactly! I do, you don’t...the psychological effects of the color will help boost our sales…” Nicole rolled her eyes and Lisbon glanced indiscreetly at her watch. It was a quarter after one and she knew they had to leave soon or Jane would be late for his unknown appointment. Nicole’s blue eyes met hers. “…look, I’m busy at the moment…”

 

            “It’s fine.” Lisbon stated, as she stood from the leather chair. “Thank you for answering all of my questions, Ms. Wright.” Lisbon motioned for Jane to stand from his seat, which he did with a smile.

 

            “I didn’t even get the chance to try and offer the both of you a sweet deal on a vehicle.”

 

Nicole frowned at the both of them, before she hung up her desk phone and stepped around her desk toward them. Lisbon stared at the young woman. Neither she nor Jane needed a new vehicle, they just needed to catch Kirsten’s murderer.

 

Lisbon shook her head. “No thank you…”

 

            “It depends on the vehicle.” Jane interrupted from behind her and Lisbon turned on her heels to gape at him. Jane had been driving in his little blue vehicle for years and she had moaned about the lack of seat belts within the contraption for years, only for him to suddenly feel the need to purchase a brand new vehicle from one of their suspects?

 

In distrust, Lisbon continued to eye him with a frown. Either Jane was pulling one of his asinine stunts or he was honestly looking to buy a new car.

 

Nicole’s face lit up. “You seem like a hybrid-type of man, Mr. Jane.” Jane continued to beam at the young saleswoman, much to Lisbon’s annoyance. “I’ve got a few top of the line hybrids I could show you.” Nicole, it seemed, didn’t care that she was a suspect in a murder investigation.

 

            “That would be wonderful.” Jane stated, before he glanced at her. “Go and wait in the vehicle, Lisbon. I’m sure I’ll be along shortly.” He glanced away from her again to focus on Nicole, who still wore a bright smile. “I’m going to go and see all what Ms. Wright has to offer me.” Jane and Nicole slipped out the door without another word and Lisbon stared at where he had been standing in shock.

 

Had Jane just brushed her off to do something completely out of character?

 

Down the hall, she heard Nicole giggle and Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose.

 

Something was definitely wrong with Patrick Jane and whether he liked it or not, she was going to get to the bottom of it. The Patrick Jane that she had worked with for nine years would have done something to signal to her that his running off with Nicole had been a ploy, an angle that he needed to work to get the young business owner to spill her secrets and close the investigation.

 

Instead, he had just told her to go and _wait_ in the vehicle as if she were some disobedient child, who didn’t know any better.

 

She released the bridge of her nose with a soft sigh and glanced around Nicole’s bland little office.

 

If she had known that after the Memorial Day weekend that Jane was going to become even more impossible than usual to deal with, she would have never let him leave her office with the satisfaction of having the last words. Lisbon would have given Jane the lecture that the man had deserved from the moment that he had killed Timothy Carter in cold blood and had expected the entire justice system to let him go, because he had managed to liberate the world of one more evil psychopath.

 

Lisbon stepped from Nicole’s office and down the plain-colored hallway, only to find Jane and Nicole hovered over a vehicle.

 

            “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Nicole asked, enthusiastically. The woman had practically thrown herself at Jane. “Seven airbags, seventeen inch alloy wheels, split third-row seat…”

 

Jane’s eyes, however, weren’t anywhere near the navy vehicle. 

 

Both of his eyes were focused on Nicole’s plentiful chest, where she had managed to undo three of the buttons on her blouse.

 

            “Yes, they are.” The sultry tone in his voice reminded Lisbon of when Jane had lost his memory and how he had hit on all of those random women, both married and single. Her heart sank into her stomach.

 

Was she losing him all over again?

 

Jane was both her best friend and partner. Someone she cared about, very much so. And if something was wrong with him, she had the right to worry about him. She also had the right to do everything in her power to make sure he was okay, even if that meant hauling him into the hospital with a pair of handcuffs on.

 

Quietly, Lisbon slipped from the car dealership and slid into the CBI-issued SUV out front. With the diluted sunlight cascading through the tinted windshield, she closed her eyes and her fingers brushed against her cross.

 

_Or_ , she thought with a frown, _did I never really have him at all?_

 

 

In the silence, she waited for an answer to come to her. But nothing came at all.

* * *

 

Red John grimaced as he and Teresa sat together within the slightly crowded hospital waiting room; he knew the doctor would find absolutely nothing wrong with him and the whole hospital outing would become a giant waste of time, all because a certain _somebody_ had worried way too much.

 

Teresa had her eyes focused on some nondescript magazine; her small lips pressed into a firm line and her loafered feet tapped impatiently upon the black and white tiled floor, which made him wonder if she was still angry with him for earlier. Whether Teresa would believe his lies or not, he had tried to explain to her in the CBI-issued SUV that his conversation with Nicole had been strictly case related, even if he had caught a small glimpse of the brunette’s rounded breasts down her shirt, imprisoned by her black-lace bra.

 

Or if Teresa was jealous, because he had flirted with Nicole Wright on purpose. The woman, after all, was a little whore and whores only deserved to be dominated.

 

Red John’s grimace became a thin smile. In the days after his first kill, he had started to build his first circle of accomplices using the cliché notions of love, a quest for enlightenment and his skills of subtle flirting to lure mostly innocent women and men, who had all been scorned by someone in their lives, into his hands.

 

Dumar Hardy had felt the responsibility to follow in the footsteps of his father, Orville Tanner, who had been the first true friend that Red John had ever had. When they had both been children, Orville had always been interested in death and years later, when the man had been arrested for murder, he had taken the true identity of Red John to his grave.

 

Red John had felt a tiny amount of sorrow at Orville’s passing, but he had quickly moved onto the next thing.  Orville wouldn’t have wanted him or his son to focus on his death for long as they all had a mission to continue on with.

 

Red John hadn’t wanted Hardy dead, but the young man had been reckless and Patrick had shot the accomplice. And all of his accomplices, upon joining him on his mission of “enlightenment”, knew that death was always a possibility and that if they were to die, they would have died valiantly for a worthy cause.

 

Rebecca, on the other hand, had been abused as a child; her father had walked out on the family before Rebecca had even been a year-old, her mother had continuously locked the young girl into a closet for hours on end, and her brother, Danny, had overdosed by the age of seventeen. As a young woman, fresh from college and a horrible home life, Rebecca had needed guidance and in the darkest hours of her life, he had stuck his hand out to her and had helped her down the path of righteousness. 

 

The notion of valiantly dying for a worthy cause was why Rebecca had smiled upon being poisoned; the emotionally-damaged brunette had realized early on that sacrifices had to be made and although it had pained him to kill her, Red John knew the dangers of allowing his accomplices to keep their voices after they had no use anymore.

 

And the individuals who worked within law enforcement had always naively believed that their security systems were safe or that no serial killer could infiltrate the inside of their organizations, when in reality, it wasn’t too hard to sneak anywhere, especially if one had a few good friends on the inside and patience.

 

Todd Johnson had just been an idiot from the get-go, though. Shooting other officers dead had been an alright idea, but then, the young officer had murdered his fiancée and Johnson had become a security risk. In the end, however, O’Laughlin had taken care of their little security risk in the most appropriate of ways; Johnson had been burned alive within the bowels of the CBI, before he had been able to utter anything remotely helpful to Patrick Jane.

 

Craig O’Laughlin though, hadn’t even popped up on his radar until after the man had started to investigate Bret Stiles and Visualize within the FBI. Bret Stiles had informed him that O’Laughlin was a “bright, misguided FBI Agent, who would go far” and Red John found himself interested in O’Laughlin’s potential. However, Stiles had warned him that O’Laughlin wouldn’t join a serial killer, unless he was given a good enough reason to do so and Red John had arranged for O’Laughlin to be kidnapped on a case.

 

By the time the FBI found O’Laughlin, two weeks after he had been kidnapped and had seen the logic in what Red John had done, the FBI Agent had united himself to Red John’s mission of “enlightenment” and had sworn to protect Red John’s life, even if it meant losing his own in the process.

 

Lastly, Timothy Carter had been recruited years after the first known “Red John” killing in 1998 as the man had found everything else to be quite _boring_. Compared to the other accomplices, Carter and O’Laughlin had been the only two intelligent and cunning enough to become his left and right hand men. Carter’s death (in the same hour as O’Laughlin’s) had been enough to make Red John weary of the entire Serious Crimes Unit, as they just didn’t know when to very well leave things alone.

 

Teresa shifted slightly next to him and he blinked the thoughts away. Dwelling in the past did nothing but make the present more difficult.

 

Within the uncomfortable red leather chair, Red John appraised Teresa in her irritation. Her toned arms were on display for his ultimate viewing pleasure as she had taken the time to rid herself of that ugly, constricting black blazer. Her dark shoulder length hair had curled against her face, while the black tank top that she wore drove his imagination (and Jane’s body) wild; the top seam of the strapped tank top sat just above her creamy breasts and her golden cross shimmered in the hanging fluorescents of the waiting room. Due to the overwhelming heat outside, the black cotton of her tank top clung to her ivory skin, decorated with little beads of sweat.

 

Indiscreetly, he kept his eyes focused on Teresa’s breasts and he folded his hands in his lap. Nicole’s breasts had been well-rounded and eager within that bra of hers, but as a precaution, Red John refused to fuck drug dealers. One never knew how many diseases a prostitute or drug dealer had on the inside of their clitorises and Red John wanted to keep his penis, clean and STD-free.

 

Nicole Wright and her ‘boyfriend’, Phil Raleigh, definitely weren’t dating. Nicole had been all too eager to strip her clothing on the sales floor and let him have his own way with her, which had signaled that both Nicole and Phil were up to something questionable. Considering that Phil hadn’t gotten any less jittery and Nicole wore designer undergarments, as he had seen a flash of her red thong, Red John guessed that Nicole was a drug dealer, Phil was the buyer and Kirsten had just gotten caught up in the middle of it all.

 

Even if Nicole hadn’t been a drug dealer, he still would have passed on her. Nicole’s breasts, while well-rounded lacked the fullness and challenge that Teresa’s held. He wanted to cup Teresa’s creamy full breasts and mold them with his hands and know that he had succeeded in tricking her into believing that he was Patrick Jane.

 

Red John had always known that the women on Patrick’s unit were attractive; in the past, he had often found himself drawn more toward Grace and her long, flowing red hair as it reminded him of blood, however lately, his sexual attraction to Teresa had grown tenfold in the past week.  At first, he had considered that the amplified feelings had something to do with Patrick’s body or some unexpected side effect from the Vicissivenom, but as the week had gone on and they had spent hours together on the Ryder case, he had slowly realized that it was _him_ , who was becoming sexually attracted to her.

 

Teresa Lisbon was a beautiful creature, after all, and it would have been a complete waste if he didn’t take her for a test spin, before he decided to break her.

 

Teresa shifted in her seat again and he fixed her with his best Patrick-like smile. If Patrick hadn’t displayed more affection toward Teresa, it would have been easier to designate all of his sexual feelings on Grace, but Patrick had made it completely clear that Teresa was the most important thing to him.

 

            “You can leave, if you want.” Red John told her. Teresa glanced up from her magazine to fix him with an irritated stare, which secretly amused him. Teresa wore jealousy well.

 

            “And have you steal the keys from me and run off?” She asked with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I don’t think so. Don’t think I haven’t learned anything from you, Jane.” The brunette glanced back down at her magazine and he continued to smile, even though he still wanted to slit her throat. He hadn’t needed to be sitting in a waiting room to have his damned head examined, all because _Jane_ hadn’t been acting like himself lately; Red John needed to be with the unit.

 

Red John fell silent. He knew he could have hypnotized her into leaving or calling off the appointment within the SUV, but because she didn’t fully trust him (yet), she wouldn’t have allowed him to rest a hand on her and hypnotic suggestion without touch was nearly impossible to accomplish.

 

            “Patrick Jane.” The nurse dressed in blue scrubs called into the waiting room from the doorway. Red John slowly stood from his chair, only to find Teresa moving behind him.

 

            “You’re not coming in, are you?” Red John asked. He didn’t want her to come within five feet of the doctor, especially if the man was going to do a brain scan. While Kraze had once reassured him that nothing would appear abnormal between his and Jane’s brain, he still couldn’t take the chance of anything tipping her off to something being absolutely wrong. “I think I can handle undressing myself, Lisbon.”

 

He didn’t turn around to stare at her, although he felt her glare on his back.

 

            “No.” Teresa answered and he raised his eyebrow, though she couldn’t see it. Why on earth had the woman put her magazine back on one of the tacky end tables then? He turned his head to stare at her and she gave him a hard look, which made him close his mouth and continue on toward the patiently waiting auburn nurse.

 

            “How are you doing today?” The auburn haired nurse—Ashley Martin, her laminated name badge read—asked with a bright smile and Red John kept from rolling his eyes at her overly perky behavior. Women like Ashley Martin, he had always believed, deserved to find themselves at the end of a sharp knife. “Follow me, Mr. Jane.” Ashley said after a moment of silence and Red John followed after her, both of their footsteps echoing down the long hallway, until she waved him into one of the rooms and asked for him to step up onto the scale.

 

_Whether Teresa knows it or not,_ Red John thought as he allowed for the nurse to scribble Patrick’s weight into her little chart, _she is going to pay dearly for this one._


	7. Chapter 7

**7—**

****

“Telling me you need a vacation,” Lisbon said with a snort, as she threw her head over her shoulder and reversed the vehicle from its little parking space at Sacramento General. “Does the doctor even know what you do, Jane?” She turned her head to face the front windshield, when she caught a brief glimpse of Jane and the ear-to-ear grin that he wore at her statement.

 

            “I don’t know, Lisbon.” Jane teased, lightly. “I close cases and pay my debts to society, which can be awfully exhausting.” She heard him fake a yawn as she signaled her intent to turn right onto the highway and rolled her eyes. Even if the doctor had thoroughly checked Jane for illness and any reoccurring signs that the amnesia might be creeping in, Dr. Justin Miller had said that Jane was “perfectly fine” and that he was just “a little stressed and in need of some vacation time”, she still didn’t believe that everything was fine with him.

 

Why?

 

In their working relationship, Jane had lied to her many times. Deniability seemed to be the common theme of their relationship, considering that Jane had purposely not told her numerous amounts of things to keep her from getting into trouble.

 

As partners, they were supposed to trust each other. However, she had never fully been able to trust him due to all of the crap he had pulled in the past; taunting killers into confessions, pretending to poison suspects, picking locks, tearing families apart, and blackmailing others, the list of untrustworthy things that he had over the years to test her trust in him went on.

 

            “Why do you doubt the findings from a fine medical professional?”

 

Lisbon frowned at Jane’s question, which interrupted her thoughts. It wasn’t that she doubted the doctor; it was just that Jane had changed too much in a short period of time to be _fine_. “Carmen said you were of good mental health after you had shot Dumar Hardy.”

 

Jane chuckled. “Carmen wanted me out of the way so he could frame you. My doctor only wants to help me. There’s a huge difference.”

 

            “I know that.” Lisbon said with a sigh. She kept her eyes focused on the road ahead, even though she wanted to stare at Jane to gauge his reaction. “I just worry about you, Jane.”

 

            “If anything was wrong with me, Lisbon,” she could feel his stare on her and it unnerved her slightly. “I would tell you.” Lisbon scoffed under her breath. Jane wouldn’t tell her if anything was wrong until _after_ the fact, because he apparently had always expected her to fix his problems after the fact. “You don’t believe me? I’m wounded.” Lisbon said nothing in response to his theatrical display. “What have I done that makes you doubt my statement?”

 

            “Where would you like me to begin?” Lisbon asked dryly. Jane chuckled again. “I could start with how you didn’t tell Darcy about…”

 

            “I didn’t mean others outside of us.” Jane interrupted. “I’ve always tried to be honest with you, even if I know it will have a lasting impact on our relationship later.” Lisbon shook her head. Jane never thought things through; he jumped into action, before he knew the facts and that was how Timothy Carter had ended up being murdered. If Jane had just told her _before_ he had decided to confront Carter, shoulder bleeding or not, she could have talked him out of it. Instead, he had decided to waltz up to the man, listen to a few words involving Red John, see the flash of a gun, and pull the trigger of his own gun in front of a crowded room full of witnesses. “Tried is the keyword here, Lisbon. I’ve always _tried_ ; you have to give me some credit.”

 

Stopped at the light, she stared at him briefly. “I’ve known you for nine years. The only time that you’ve actually succeeded in being honest with me about yourself was when Sophie Miller was involved.” Years ago, their relationship had seemed simple. Minelli had given her a longer leash to deal with Jane, the team had trusted them both more, and the FBI weren’t breathing down their necks. Jane hadn’t been a killer back then, he had just been Patrick Jane, the unruly consultant with a hopefully changeable vengeance complex and she hadn’t been a woman on the verge of losing control, she had just been Teresa Lisbon, the Senior Agent of the Serious Crimes Unit. “And even then, you didn’t want to answer. So no, Jane. You haven’t _always_ tried. You’ve just kept dragging your feet in the mud, until the answer has to be said or I won’t budge on the subject.”

 

            “Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

 

            “And why would you apologize?” Lisbon questioned. “Your apologies aren’t exactly worth anything, so please forgive me if I seem a tiny bit skeptical.” She thought back to the time when Jane had pretended that they were all dying to catch a murderer; his apologies had been meaningless back then and his apologizes over something unknown weren’t exactly promising either.

 

            “I’m apologizing because of what I’ve put you through in the past.” Jane answered. “I’m apologizing because of how selfish I’ve been and I want to make it up to you.” Lisbon gaped at him. What in the hell was he playing at? “You might want to go; the light is green.” Brought from her thoughts, Lisbon pushed on the gas pedal and they continued down the road. “And if it means that much to you, I will answer your question of if I’m okay with a truthful answer, okay? I won’t hedge the question with a silly comment or run from you.” If she wasn’t driving, she would have continued to stare at him in surprise. Jane was willingly going to answer a question or talk to her without running away? Every time the subject of Red John had come up between them in the past year, Jane had managed to dodge the situation with a murder suspect or he had managed to change the subject. Why did he want to discuss anything now?

 

            “Why?”

 

            “Why I did it or why I won’t do it?” Jane asked her and she rolled her eyes. Forthcoming Jane or not, he was still a pain in the ass. “I ran from you, because I’m an idiot who was in way over his head.” Well, that was a new one. Jane had never publically acknowledged that he was an idiot before and it suddenly made her feel better. As long as he was the one admitting it, she could fully agree with him without feeling horrible about it. “I won’t do it this time though, because I’ve realized that running isn’t going to solve anything.”

 

            “How long did it take you to come to this realization?”

 

            “Long enough to know that you deserve to be treated better.” Lisbon said nothing. “You do so much for me and for everyone else, Lisbon.”

 

            “It’s my job.” Lisbon dodged having to give an answer. Her team (and work) had always been her first priority and if anything happened to her team, it would have been her fault for not having been able to protect them all. They, as much as Jane refused to believe her, were a family and families stuck together, no matter what.

 

            “No, it isn’t.” Jane argued. “You could have left us…me…years ago, but you chose to stay. You’ve almost lost your job because of me…”

 

            “And as I’ve told you before, I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later.” Lisbon interrupted as her heart crashed against her ribcage. “We’re friends, Jane. I’m here until you no longer need or want me.” Although she would never admit it out loud, the fact that he could leave them at any time had always been a small worry to her. Once Red John had been caught (or killed, depending on who got there first), Jane had absolutely no reason to stick around; he had vanquished his demons and put his wife and child to rest. It was why she had taken him back to his Malibu home after he had lost his memory and after he had wanted to leave them all; she claimed that her team couldn’t do anything without him, but honestly, her team could do much more without Jane around. She felt her cheeks grow warm; she had been selfish, but she couldn’t imagine a day in her life without Jane and the trouble that he brought around.

 

            “Why wouldn’t I need or want you?”

 

Lisbon had thought of many scenarios where Jane didn’t want or need her anymore. Some of the scenarios had involved him being arrested, as he had been arrested three times; once for eavesdropping, once for causing trouble within the courtroom, and once for murdering Timothy Carter. And some of the scenarios involved Red John; one of the team members would get to Red John before he did and Jane would leave them all, she would get to Red John before he could and Jane would blame her for the rest of his life, or Jane would find himself under Red John’s knife.

 

Either way, she knew Jane would leave them all eventually. It was just the question of _when_ , not if.

 

            “Have I given you a reason to think otherwise?” Jane asked and she opened her mouth to respond, when he continued on. “I’m a changed man, Lisbon. I took the three day weekend we had off and reconsidered my options about everything.” She felt his stare on her again. “The team, Wainwright, Darcy, Red John, you.” Lisbon moved her hand to grab at the still-warm coffee in the cup holder only to feel Jane’s thumb brush lightly against her wrist. Shocked by the momentary contact, she dropped the cup of coffee back into its holder and her hand went back atop the steering wheel.

 

Jane didn’t enjoyhuman contact.

Jane had never touched her like that before.  
  


Her heart thudded against her ribcage.  
 

_What does he mean?_ Lisbon tried to ignore the worry creeping into her thoughts. None of Jane’s _changes_ had been too earth shattering, but change and Patrick Jane were the two words that weren’t supposed to be in a sentence together.

 

            “I realized that I’ve been selfish to the entire team; I should have told them about Red John.” Lisbon had to agree with him. If Jane had told the team when he had told her, the FBI wouldn’t have been sticking their noses where it didn’t belong. “I also shouldn’t have expected you to shelter this huge bombshell on your own, as something bad could have happened to you.” She had never feared Red John coming after her, but Jane had a valid point; all of the trusting had painted a huge target on her back for not only Red John but other killers as well. Not that she minded, of course. It was her duty to protect the citizens of California, even if it meant risking her own life in return. “You’ll say this is your job again, which I can’t argue…”

 

            “It _is_ my job, Jane.” Lisbon repeated. “Should you have told the team? Yes. Should you have told Darcy earlier? Yes. Should you have kept this a secret from everybody? No.” Could Jane still not understand that secret keeping was a dangerous pastime? “We’re your friends, Jane. If anybody has your back that you can trust with your life, it’s us.” _And me_ , she added in her thoughts. Lisbon didn’t want to go back to the period of time where Jane had shared absolutely nothing with her; he had kept all of his thoughts to himself about suspects and he had hidden all of his thoughts from her about Red John, except when he had promised to get revenge. Their friendship had come too far to be set back, just because of a few _things_ that Jane had thought over after a silly fight. “Don’t think too much into things, okay? Everybody makes mistakes, especially witty consultants with a hidden superior complex.”

 

Lisbon heard Jane laugh and she couldn’t help but smirk. The idea of change still didn’t bode too well with her, but it was better than some tragedy having caused him mental trauma.

 

            “I’ll try not to think, Lisbon, but I find that rather impossible not to do.” And with that, Lisbon rolled her eyes. Jane couldn’t stay serious for long, could he? “You’re taking me home, aren’t you?”

 

            “No, Jane.” Lisbon dryly replied. “I’m taking you to the aquarium. We’re going to go feed the sharks; I hear they love raw consultant.” The bright grin across his face was well worth the comment, although it had made her feel rather foolish. “Of course I’m taking you home!” Jane had left his vehicle at his extended stay motel on her orders, as she hadn’t wanted him to figure out a way of escape. “How would you have gotten home from the CBI, Jane? Would you have walked?”

 

            “Actually, I’m more partial to using a pogo stick.” Jane answered. Lisbon shook her head as she spotted Jane’s extended stay motel to the left of them both.  “Up, down, down, up. It’s very soothing.”

 

            “Until you fall on your ass.” Lisbon absent-mindedly said, before she turned into the extended stay motel parking lot. She heard Jane chuckle once more.

 

            “Well,” Jane replied, “there is always that.”

 

Lisbon parked the SUV near Jane’s little blue car and turned to stare at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

 

            “Yes, you will.” Jane answered. She watched him undo his seatbelt, slowly before she focused her attention on the clearly fake palm tree. “I assume you’re not going home and you’re just going back to work?” Lisbon nodded. The sun, while waning, was still out and she intended to use every moment of daylight left to figure out who had killed Kirsten.  “What are you going to do?”

 

            “Running leads.” Lisbon gave. “Last I knew: Van Pelt was going through Ryder’s second set of phone records.” The young woman had held two phones; one for her regular life and one for her night life. Nothing incriminating had been found on the first phone, but the second phone had been missing a Sim Card, which they had yet been able to recover. “I want to see if she found anything.”

 

            “She’ll find something.” Jane reassured her and Lisbon nodded, hopeful that Van Pelt would find a new lead worth chasing. Jane opened his car door and turned his head back to glance at her, a smile on his lips. “Thank you for taking me to the hospital, Lisbon. I’m glad I have someone like you in my life.” Before she could say anything more, she felt his moist lips on hers and her eyes went wide in disbelief. Had _Jane_ just kissed her? On the lips? She didn’t even think he could do something like that.  

 

Jane pulled away from her with a smile on his lips. “See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.” He hopped from the SUV and she watched him shut the door with her jaw dropped slightly and her brows furrowed in confusion.

 

_Did I miss something here?_ Lisbon wondered, silently. Jane had always seemed to enjoy pulling his little stunts on her, but the kiss was completely out of the blue. In the nine years that they had both been together, Jane had never once pressed his lips to _any_ part of her body—lips or cheeks, included and she wondered if his so-called _change_ had anything to do with his new found boldness.

 

Lisbon would have continued musing about Jane, if it hadn’t been for the loud pounding against the passenger side window. With a shake of the head, Lisbon rolled down the passenger side window and watched Jane stick his head into the car.

 

            “Oh and by the way,” Jane said, still with a smile across his face. Lisbon eyed him; the distance between them both made her happy. “That memory card thingy that you can’t find; it’s in Nicole’s bra. Just thought I should tell you.”

 

            “Wh…?”

 

            “Bye, Lisbon!”

 

Lisbon watched Jane disappear from her line of sight, quicker than she had been able to completely form the four letter question of _what_ and she cursed him under her breath. Obviously, Jane had known who the murderer was way before they had; it was just the way the asshole had always worked, changed or not.

 

            “Cocky bastard.” Lisbon muttered as she started away from the extended stay motel and tried to wipe the kiss from her mind.

 

 After all, she and Jane…together?

 

There was just no way in hell.

* * *

_Two months later…_

 

Lisbon felt Jane’s lips against her bare shoulder, as she pressed her body against his. His hands brushed against her bare abdomen and she nodded her consent for him to unclasp her bra; the piece of clothing fell to the floor and she felt his hands caress against the underside of her breasts with a delightful shudder. Jane said nothing, while he brought his lips from her bare shoulder and brought them to rest atop one of her breasts.

 

She could feel the softness of his warm lips gyrating around the pale skin, his moist tongue darted in and out from his mouth to touch skin and taste at her sensitive peaks. His mouth sent her body ablaze with raw desire and hunger, as she felt his teeth graze across the tip that ached with need and she couldn’t help but close her eyes at the sensual act.

                                   

Jane’s hands gently kneaded her breasts, which continued to ache and swell with desire. His soft touch drove all the doubts about what they should and what they shouldn’t be doing from her mind, as he moved his lips from one breast to another; and she drew in a shaky inhale at the feeling of his cool tongue against her stiff crest. Lisbon let out a slight moan in pleasure, as she allowed for Jane to push her into her mattress. His lips pressed against hers again.

 

His taste was intoxicating to her, something she had never imagined a taste to be; he tasted of herbs and sweet lemon and she found herself wanting more, as she slid her tongue in between his parted lips and allowed for her tongue to dance with his in a mad, passionate tango. Every second spent attached to his lips depleted her oxygen supply, until she grew lightheaded and Jane released her lips with a soft chuckle.

 

In the near darkness, she narrowed her eyes and nudged him to be quiet with her knee.

 

Jane retaliated by sweeping his fingers down her breasts to her abdomen, where she could feel his fingers tracing small circles into the softness of her skin, before he had his hand on the inside of her thigh. His warm touch made her relax into the mattress; her breathing emerged in short gasps, as she anxiously waited for the feel of his hand within her.

 

However, the damned man merely traced the inside of her thigh with his fingers and she grew impatient. She opened her mouth to ask what he was waiting for, when she felt her legs being nudged aside by his mouth. Breathlessly, Lisbon parted her legs for him. She felt his hot breath caressing her insides and she shivered in anticipation; his tongue hit the apex of her legs and she moaned in desire.

 

If he found her desire to be mirthful, she had no clue. She wasn’t mindful of anything else besides his gentle touch against the outside of her thigh and his moist tongue, which continued to slowly work away at her insides. His tongue set every nerve of her body on fire and her fingers buried themselves in his mass of blonde curls, as he cleaned her of her juices. Lisbon kept her eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds of Jane’s lips against her center and trying to remember how to breathe, until the soft sounds and his touch left her. Her breath returned to her, her hands became free of his hair and she frowned in disappointment. Was he done already? Had it been bad? With the removal of his touch, her conflicting thoughts returned; were the possible consequences worth their one night together? 

 

Realistically, Lisbon knew Jane wouldn’t be ready for a strings attached relationship until Red John was completely out of the picture and he had properly mourned the loss of his family, but for the night she could pretend that they were more than just boss and consultant. That they actually had something worth starting and committing themselves too, even if it was nothing more than a single night of passion caused by nine years of built up sexual frustration and close calls.

 

She opened her mouth to say something to him, when she felt his hard arousal driving into her. Lisbon had no choice but to accept him, as she answered his thrusting hips and conformed to his insistent rhythm. Whispering shallowly from her lungs, she moaned his name and whimpered, as she lifted her hips from the mattress in need.

 

Deep inside of her still, Jane picked up the rhythm and she lowered her hips back onto the mattress; her teeth sank into his shoulder, as her nails scraped down his back. Jane moaned against her, one of his arms around her, while he continued to thrust into her with his rotating hips. Down her thighs, she could feel her own juices trickling and she burned with desire.

 

Lisbon felt Jane’s hot breath against her ear. “Tell me what you want.” He whispered. His tone enveloped her like velvet.

 

            “You.” Lisbon replied, huskily. “Inside me.”

 

Jane said nothing and she felt him shift himself on top of her, until she felt his lips against hers again. His tongue swirled inside of her mouth, as he continued to rock her body into ecstasy. With one final push into her, she climaxed and he removed his lips from hers; she cried out in pleasure, as she continued to writhe under him.

 

Eventually, she felt him leave her and her eyes opened, while she felt the bed move. Jane had rolled off her and she twisted her body to lie on her side, exhausted from their interlude. Her breathing slowly evened out, as she felt Jane’s arm wrap around her and with a small smile, she closed her eyes again.

 

Sleep claimed her within minutes.

* * *

The loud noise from her alarm clock brought her from her peaceful sleep with a groan; a yawn pulled at her lips, as Lisbon hit at her alarm clock to silence it.

 

            “I think the time moves faster and faster every day.” Lisbon muttered. She was disgruntled that she had been awoken after another long night without much sleep. Jane’s laugh in her ear made her smile faintly, even if the man had flipped on one of the lamps near her bed.

 

            “Maybe if I wasn’t keeping you up for half of the night, the time would go much slower?” Jane asked and she felt his arm return around her bare waist. She could almost imagine the playful smile across his face, which made her roll her eyes in response to his imagined reaction. “Not that I’m complaining, anyway. I’m an insomniac; time creeps along for me, whether I’m with a beautiful woman or not.” Lisbon felt herself blushing at his compliment.

 

            “Are you with many beautiful women then?” Lisbon teased, before she rolled over in his loose grasp to face him. In the dim yellow coloring of her bedroom, she found that Jane was indeed grinning at her.

 

            “You ask me this when we’re lying in your bed together for the sixth time?” Lisbon raised her eyebrow at him. “Teresa,” the use of her name still sent pleasurable shivers through her spine, even though she should have been used to their more intimate matters by now. “Don’t you think you should have asked me about that before we first started this?”

 

Lisbon met his bluish-green eyes with her own stare. “It’s not like you asked me if I wanted my bra unclasped, Patrick.” The smile on her lips, she hoped, would convey that she was joking to him.

 

            “No, I didn’t.” Jane replied, a smile still on his lips. “Mainly because I knew you liked it.” Apparently, the man knew everything about her. “I also think you’re impressed I remember how to unhook a bra, especially without any light on within the room.”

 

            “In light or no light, any man who knows how to do that deserves an award.” Lisbon answered. Jane continued to grin, before he moved to press his lips against hers again and she sighed into his touch. They had both gotten much better at having less awkward morning after’s together and she almost didn’t want to have to leave the bed to face reality.

 

His tongue slipped past her lips and she pulled away with a soft chuckle. “We’re not doing that again. I have to get ready for work, as do you.” Jane playfully pouted and she threw him a mock glare. “Didn’t you get more than enough last night?”

 

            “I can never get enough of your body, Teresa.” Jane answered as he pressed his lips against one of her breasts. “It’s like a fine wine, love.” Lisbon snorted at his cheesy line until she felt him licking at her breasts and then his tongue, which danced across one of her nipples. She shivered in pleasure again. “And it seems,” he said after he had pulled away from her, “like you don’t mind it, either.”

 

Well, of course, she didn’t mind it. If she had, they wouldn’t still be naked in bed together. She recalled the first time they had gotten together and with a soft chuckle, she remembered how she _had_ minded it then. Between the weeks of compliments, the good behavior, the occasional trinket that she would find on her desk or in her stuff from him, the light touches that had begun to drive her insane, and the lingering stares between them both, she hadn’t been able to avoid this charm any longer. Their first time had been in her office, on her couch, late at night; both of them nervous, until they had found a persistent rhythm that they both could work with. It hadn’t meant to last more than one night, but one had quickly become two, the office couch had become her bedroom, and two had become six.

 

While she wasn’t a virgin or naïve to the idea of sex, her job had always seemed to rank higher than her sexual needs. Jane had been the first man in months that she had allowed into her bed and his silver tongue against her skin kept her coming back for more, week after week.

 

            “But you’re right,” Jane finally added, after they had both been silent for a few minutes. “Work awaits us. I wonder what fun we’ll get into today.” His grin went from happy to cocky in less than three seconds and she narrowed her eyes; they weren’t about to try anything during the day, especially when co-workers were around. Enjoyment or not, she did have her reputation to uphold and being caught with your pants down around your ankles tended to ruin any amount of respect within the workplace. “I’m not thinking about that, Teresa. I’m just wondering who will be murdered today.”

 

Lisbon snorted again. “You really know how to kill the mood, don’t you?” With a second groan, she pulled herself from his grasp and placed her bare feet on the carpeted floor. “You’ll be fine on your own, won’t you?”

 

            “I think I can manage without being handcuffed to the bed, Teresa. Go and take your shower.” Lisbon shook her head at his handcuff comment and stood from the bed, only to feel his lingering stare on her bare backside.

 

It was going to be a long day at work and not just because Jane had seen her naked either. As much as she enjoyed her time with him, she had always been worried that anyone within the CBI would figure out what they had been doing together for the past two months. Relationships, purely sexual or not, between two co-workers wasn’t allowed within the CBI. Although Rigsby now had Sarah and Benjamin and Van Pelt wasn’t in any place for a relationship, she still felt like a hypocrite for getting into anything with Jane, especially after having told Rigsby and Van Pelt years ago that they couldn’t engage in activities like that.

 

Lisbon sighed as she grabbed her work clothes for the day atop her vanity counter. In the past two months, change had been a constant for everybody; after they had closed the Ryder case (Nicole Wright had hidden the missing memory card in her bra and after twenty minutes with Cho in the interrogation room, she had confessed that she and Phil Raleigh had murdered Kirsten Ryder) and they had all readjusted to Jane’s new quirks (sitting at his desk instead of the couch, being genuinely helpful and bringing her a cup of coffee every morning), things had gotten much better.

 

Wainwright and Darcy had both found Jane’s behavior “odd”, but she had managed to explain to them both (away from Jane) that he had just been reconsidering everything in his life lately and his good behavior was because he felt that he needed to treat her better.

 

Maybe the FBI was paranoid of all changes, because Darcy hadn’t seemed too convinced in the reason behind Jane’s subtle shift in behavior. Wainwright, on the other hand, had seemed pleased.

 

And as far as she knew it, neither of them knew about her and Jane and she wanted it to stay that way too. The last thing that Lisbon wanted was for Darcy to accuse her of working for Red John also. 


	8. Chapter 8

**8** —

Not even ten minutes into the work day, Lisbon was met with her first interruption for the day. Without even bothering to knock; the woman, a slender brunette dressed in a light pink blouse and a dark skirt, stepped straight into her office and moved to stand in front of her desk.

 

Lisbon glanced away from Wainwright’s email to stare at the disrespectful visitor with a scowl. She hated when people just strolled into her office as if they owned the place, when in reality, nobody owned her office but herself and upper management. Lisbon opened her mouth to admonish the young woman, when the female spoke instead.

 

            “Agent Lisbon, before you say anything, I know I should have knocked.” Lisbon made no movement, but she kept her eyes on the brunette. “However, we’re losing time and my superior agent, Mark Lancaster, has asked me to speak to you about our latest case…”

 

            “Forgive my rudeness, ma’am.” Lisbon interrupted. She knew Agent Mark Lancaster, as he headed the Missing Person Unit within the CBI, but she still had no idea who the woman in front of her was. “I have no idea who you are.”

 

The young female bowed her head slightly. “I’m sorry Agent Lisbon; I should have introduced myself to you first.” Lisbon nodded; an introduction from the beginning would have been far easier than a rambling apology. “I’m Junior Agent Kayla Rivet of Missing Persons. Agent Lancaster wants to ask if you can lend your assistance to a case that we’re working on right now.”

 

            “And why didn’t Agent Lancaster speak to me himself, Agent Rivet?” Lisbon questioned, her eyes still trained on the young CBI agent. “This is the Serious Crimes Unit. We only deal with homicides.”

 

            “Agent Lancaster is currently investigating the disappearance of Elizabeth Shannon.” Lisbon nodded again. Elizabeth Shannon was the little six-year-old girl, who had been snatched from her own front lawn in broad daylight. “I know you only deal with homicides, Agent. However, fifteen miles away from where Elizabeth Shannon was kidnapped, a local hiker found a body. Agent Lancaster wanted you help to figure out if it the victim is related to the Shannon kidnapping or not.”

 

            “Tell Agent Lancaster that we’ll be able to help him.” Lisbon said. They had all closed another case yesterday, involving a semi-local farmers market and a prized turnip. Aside from the leftover paperwork and loose ends, agreeing to assist on another case would keep everybody busy. Agent Rivet nodded; her thick ponytail moved with her head, before she pulled out something from the pocket of her skirt.

 

            “This is for you.” Rivet handed the single piece of paper to Lisbon, who took it; enclosed were instructions to the crime scene and Lancaster’s cell phone number, “just in case”. “We’re not entirely too sure about the identity of the victim found yet either, but hopefully, somebody will have more information upon your arrival.”

 

Before Lisbon could say anything else, Rivet was already out the door and with a sigh, Lisbon headed out to the bullpen. She had been correct when she had said it was going to be a long day, especially as working with Missing Persons was always an adventure.

 

            “We’re up,” was all Lisbon said to her unit as she stepped into the bullpen. “Missing Persons wants us on a case and I told Agent Lancaster that we’d help him out.” Lisbon heard the groans and she shook her head. “Come on guys. Agent Lancaster is trying to find whoever kidnapped Elizabeth Shannon; we need to help him.” She scanned her unit with her eyes; Van Pelt had just turned on her computer, the woman’s hand was still on the monitor button. Rigsby held a mug of coffee to his mouth, as if he had been about ready to take a sip. Cho had sat his book down to stare up at her and Jane remained behind his desk, reading as usual.

 

            “Last time I checked, Lisbon.” Jane responded with his eyes still in his book. “We’re the Serious Crimes Unit. We deal with victims, who have died or who are dying in some horrible accident; arson car crash, garroting, burying alive, frightening, impaling, and feeding to wild animals…”

 

            “Wild animals usually get to the body after the fact.” Cho interrupted. Lisbon nodded in agreement.

 

            “Agent whatever his name is, is a part of the Missing Persons Unit. They deal with victims, who have gone missing for more than twenty-four hours.” Jane replied and Lisbon rolled her eyes. Outside of their personal relationship, the man was still irritating. He still made untimely jokes, but she was thankful that he wasn’t purposely trying to out their relationship. “It would be like us asking Employee Support Services for help on a case; they deal with the paperwork and administrative head shrinking, while we get down and dirty with actual foes of the work place.”

 

            “Employee Support Services usually doesn’t have anybody find a body within fifteen miles of an abduction site, either.” Jane sat his book down to glance up at her. “I told Agent Lancaster we’d help, so we’re helping. End of discussion.” Nobody said anything and she shook her head in annoyance. “What are you all waiting for? An invitation?” Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt stood from their desks as Jane grinned in her direction.

 

            “An invitation would be nice, Lisbon.”

 

Lisbon scowled in his direction. Did he have to make everything so difficult sometimes? “You either come or you don’t, Jane. I don’t care either way.” Honestly, she did care if he came with them or not. Jane’s off-behavior still troubled her and she had taken to keeping him close during investigations, just in case something happened with him. She turned on her heels without waiting for an answer and she hurried toward the exit of the CBI, the team (without Jane) hot on her trail.

* * *

            “Agent Lisbon.” Agent Mark Lancaster, a man of forty-three with blonde hair and brown eyes, greeted her as she stepped under the yellow crime scene tape and shook his hand briefly. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

 

            “It’s no problem, Agent Lancaster.” Lisbon responded. Lancaster smiled grimly as he led them all to the barren crime scene, which had been barricaded off from the main Applewood hiking trail. She noticed that the trees surrounding them, with their burgeoning green canopies, over towered them all and blotched out the sun, which made the hot temperature drop moderately. Lisbon bundled her jacket to her own body before she stepped closer to the victim.

 

            “Jason Hargrove found the body; said he was running around the bend and tripped over something, most likely a root from what I’ve been told.” Lancaster informed her. Lisbon nodded. “Mr. Hardgrave rolled down the hill there,” Lancaster gestured toward the steep hill with his hand, dotted with wild flowers and matted grass, “and ended up here,” Lancaster stepped toward the body, “only to find himself face-to-face with our victim.” Lisbon glanced at the body, who remained on the red-stained dirt ground with a putrid gunshot wound to the abdomen. A gun in hand. Whoever it was, Lisbon quickly noticed, the victim was definitely female. “We haven’t been able to identify her yet, but I’m hoping our forensic team will recover more specific details.” The female victim had long, blood-matted blonde hair and her green eyes were glazed over, death having long since touched her. “All we know, so far, is that this looks like a possible suicide.”

 

Dying from a gunshot wound in the abdomen wasn’t unheard of, but it was rare. From first look, it didn’t look as if the bullet had ruptured any vital organs, but that didn’t mean much. Lisbon knew they wouldn’t know the full extent of the woman’s injuries until after the coroner had done a complete autopsy.

 

Lancaster’s possible cause of death for their victim, she believed, came from the idea that if the woman had been shot in the abdomen and none of her organs had been ruptured; the victim still could have managed to get the proper help in enough time to save her own life.

 

Instead, it seemed as if the woman had just allowed for herself to bleed out. Everything about how her body had been positioned (the hand with the gun had fallen wayside, her blue jeans stained with blood from the muzzle of the gun) to the look of utter calm on her pale face screamed suicide, but jumping to conclusions got them nowhere. 

 

            “Where’s Mr. Hargrove?” Lisbon questioned Lancaster, who gestured again toward a uniformed officer and a light-haired man. Jason didn’t seem to be too shaken up by the sight that he had seen, although death was something more and more people were becoming accustomed to thanks to the power of television and crime shows. “Did he touch the body?”

 

            “Mr. Hargrove momentarily touched the body, trying to see if our young victim was still alive.” Lancaster replied and Lisbon cursed under her breath. Trying to save victims didn’t make somebody the killer, but it was highly probable that Jason Hargrove could have killed the victim and made it look as if he had rolled down the hill to find her. “Thankfully, he didn’t touch the gun. So, if our victim didn’t commit suicide; we’ll hopefully find a second set of fingerprints that prove somebody else killed her.” Lisbon silently agreed with him. It wasn’t that she wanted a murder case, but she didn’t want another suicide case making Jane reconsider his various options yet again.

 

            “Did anybody check her left hand for cause of death?” Lisbon heard Jane call from a distance, before she turned on her heels to stare at him. He waved at her cheerfully from behind the yellow crime scene tape and she waved him forward in annoyance. She briefly wondered how he had gotten there without having directions, but it was Jane and he had his ways of knowing how to do things without her knowledge.

 

            “She’s holding a gun, Jane.” Lisbon gave, dryly.

 

            “I meant her other left hand.” Jane replied with a large smile across his face as she watched him survey the crime scene. “So, what do we have here? Tragic lover? Prostitute? Someone who just wanted to sleep and magically ended up with a gun wound?”

 

            “That’s far,” Rigsby stated from behind her, “even for you.”

 

Jane beamed.

 

            “You must be the infamous Patrick Jane.” Lancaster greeted. Lisbon watched Jane nod.

 

            “And you must be Agent Lancaster from Missing Persons.” Jane responded and Lancaster nodded. “I can’t imagine that you’re happy working with us, Agent Lancaster.”

 

            “Does anybody within the CBI actually like working together?” Lancaster questioned. Nobody said anything in response to his question and he continued to speak. “However, if working together brings Elizabeth Shannon home to her parents, I’m more than willing to try it.”

 

Jane said nothing for a moment, before he glanced back down at the body. “Interesting.”

 

            “What is?” Both Lancaster and Lisbon asked in unison. Jane glanced up at them both with amusement and she sighed under her breath.  She knew he didn’t like just giving up the answer, as it wasn’t “fun” enough for him, but it annoyed the hell out of her and everyone else involved.

 

            “Your victim looks calm.” Jane pointed out. “Too calm, actually.”

 

            “If she willingly committed suicide, she’s going to be calm. It was her decision to end her life, Mr. Jane.” Lancaster explained. Jane shook his head. “No?”

 

            “No.” Jane replied. “What if she was drugged to act this calm? It’s completely possible, isn’t it?”

 

Lancaster nodded with a calculated look on his face. “It’s certainly possible. We don’t want to rule anything out, Mr. Jane, but we’ll know more after the autopsy.” Lisbon nodded again. Lancaster, of course, was right. But so was Jane. Amy Child’s “suicide”, Wainwright had informed them nearly a month ago, had been brought on by drugs and the young woman’s behavior moments prior to her death hadn’t exactly been “normal”.

 

            “What do you want us to do, boss?” Cho questioned and Lisbon turned to glance at her unit, who all waited patiently for their orders.

 

            “Rigsby, canvas the area.” Rigsby nodded. “Van Pelt and Cho, go talk with Mr. Hargrove. Get his statement.” All three members of the unit disappeared to do their tasks, before Lisbon turned back to Lancaster. “Agent Wainwright knows we’re working this case together, yes?”

 

Lancaster nodded. “I had Agent Rivet contact him also.”

 

Lisbon opened her mouth to say something else, when Rivet appeared out of the blue. The Junior Agent had her arms crossed against her chest.

 

            “Did you find anything Agent Rivet?” Lancaster questioned. Rivet shook her head.

 

            “If this wasn’t a suicide, sir, this is a perfect crime.”

 

Jane snorted and she glanced at him briefly. “There is no such thing as a perfect crime.” Lisbon glanced back at Rivet, who readied herself to speak again. “The only person who has come close to perfecting the art of crime has been Red John, Agent Rivet.”

 

It was Rivet’s turn to snort. “I’ve dealt with killers smarter than Red John, Mr. Jane. Red John isn’t unique or smart; he’s just lucky enough not to be caught by you all.” Lisbon indiscreetly glanced in Jane’s direction only to find the man grimly smiling in Rivet’s direction. “No offense to the Serious Crimes Unit, Agent Lisbon,” she pulled her eyes away from Jane to stare at Rivet again, “but if Mr. Jane wasn’t allowed to pull his reckless stunts every time Red John reared his ugly head; you all would have caught him by now.” Lisbon blinked in surprise. She had always been used to other agents treating Jane with scorn, not herself.

 

            “Rivet!” Lancaster snapped and Lisbon watched Rivet glance in the direction of her boss. “Did you not learn what having _manners_ mean from your parents, Agent?” Rivet bowed her head slightly. “Go wait for me in the van; you’re done here.” Rivet turned on her heels and sank back toward the other CBI-issued SUV. “I’m sorry about her, Agent Lisbon. Agent Rivet lost an Uncle to Red John years ago.”

 

            “It’s not a problem, Agent Lancaster.” Lisbon responded.  She had worked the Red John case long enough to realize that the victims’ families were the most angry with the CBI for not having caught the serial killer yet. “We’ll keep you apprised of the case.”

 

            “Thank you.” Lancaster replied, before he took off in the direction of the Missing Persons SUV.

 

Lisbon turned back to Jane. “Are you okay?” She had half-expected for Jane to cruelly retort back to either Rivet or Lancaster about Red John, as an oddly quiet Jane never meant good things to come.

 

            “I’m fine, Lisbon.” Jane replied as he glanced back down at the body again and Lisbon knew he was lying, but she let it slide. Later, she’d coerce it out of him when they both weren’t around other individuals. “Shall we go see if there are any clues lying around?” Lisbon nodded, the movement served to push all the thoughts unrelated to the crime scene out of her mind.

* * *

He stared at the pictures of Tracie Killian tacked to the murder board, as he stood in the bullpen with his arms crossed against his chest. Tracie Killian had been the Shannon’s next door neighbor, who had apparently gone missing days after the initial investigation into Elizabeth Shannon’s disappearance. The young woman had worked at the local zoo as a camel caretaker and she had also been engaged to be married at the age of twenty-five; her fiancé, Avery Quentin, had been a real estate agent who moonlighted as a male escort for men.

 

Avery would have been their number one suspect for killing Tracie, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had been found dead in bed with another man. The other man, Jordan Eager—a thirty-year-old dice inspector, had been poisoned to death much like Avery had.

 

Red John shook his head. People were truly fools; Avery had been fooling around behind Tracie’s back and Jordan had been fooling around behind Avery’s back. How anybody thought that the world was a monogamist’s playground, Red John had no idea.

 

            “You look like you have some insight to share.” Teresa spoke, which interrupted him from his thoughts. Red John didn’t turn to speak to her; instead he kept his eyes on the murder board. “Care to tell me?

 

            “Not really.” Red John answered. “I’m just thinking.” He heard her move closer to him until they were mere inches apart and he smiled lightly, as he caught a whiff of her scent and watched her stare intently up at the murder board. Red John wondered if Teresa was trying to piece together the puzzles of their latest crime before Kayla showed up to irritate them again.

 

In the past two months, his opinion of Teresa had completely changed. From the countless hours that they had spent together—off and at work, he had learned that underneath that bumbling idiot persona she had adopted for Patrick, who had never fully appreciated her, remained a confident and sexy woman. And Red John had eventually found himself attracted to Teresa Lisbon; the woman knew exactly what she wanted.

 

Red John only wondered if he would still find Teresa as attractive when he finally broke her. Because even though he had feelings for her, it didn’t excuse the past actions that she had committed with Patrick or with her precious team members.

 

            “Found anything yet?” Red John asked her and he watched her shrug. “That’s not an answer.”

 

            “Neither is, ‘I’m thinking’.” Teresa dryly retorted and he grinned. At first he had thought his attraction to Teresa had been purely sexual and because of Patrick, but after their second time together (in her bedroom) and he had realized how damn good she was in bed with that little tongue of hers, he realized that he (as Red John) wanted the little minx for himself. “I asked Lancaster again for permission to interview Mr. and Mrs. Shannon about Tracie again, but he continues to deny me access.”

 

Red John rolled his eyes. Agent Mark Lancaster was a pain in the ass, as far as he was concerned. The Missing Persons Senior Agent had asked for their assistance on the dead victim only for him to dismiss all of their requests to interview the dead girl’s parents; although, he didn’t know if Elizabeth was truly dead or not, he was just making assumptions of her fate based off Lancaster’s piss-poor drive to find the little girl alive. Instead, Lancaster had merely given them Junior Agent Bitch to be the liaison between the MPU and the SCU; a decision nobody was happy with.

 

Of course, he and Teresa had two completely different reasons to dislike Junior Agent Kayla Rivet.

 

Teresa disliked Kayla, because the young junior agent had insulted her team (and in turn, her) two days ago. However, Red John couldn’t disagree that Kayla didn’t have a valid point; Patrick _could_ have caught him many times, if it hadn’t been for his crazy and slightly idiotic stunts that involved both the FBI and the CBI.

 

He, on the other hand, wondered if people ever truly learned from the mistakes of others. Kayla hadn’t slandered him on national television like Patrick had done, but she had done Patrick one better: insulting him in person, especially in front of the woman he was attracted to. Whether the bitch realized it or not, he did _not_ appreciate any form of slander and he had killed for much less before.

 

Red John wasn’t _stupid_ and luck didn’t exist; it was the smart and meticulous planning coupled with enough time to watch each of his victims in their day-to-day lives to get a handle on their schedules before moving in for the kill. Rarely, did he ever kill without pre-planning as mistakes were bound to occur with sloppiness; Carter Peaks had been a fine example of that one.

 

            “Good morning, Agent Lisbon and Mr. Jane.” Red John heard the grating sound of Kayla’s voice and her footsteps on the floor behind them before he turned around to greet her with a thin smile. Teresa had also turned to stare at the young agent also.

 

            “Good morning, Agent Rivet.” Teresa greeted, her tone laced with false politeness. Kayla nodded.

 

            “Good morning, Agent Rivet.” Red John parroted Teresa. “How's your book on Red John and my idiotic ways coming along? Have you found any new ploys I can try?” He felt Teresa’s elbow slam into his ribs and he painfully coughed; Teresa had been elbowing him for the past two days, because he couldn’t keep his comments to himself. The first time she had done it though and she hadn’t explained herself, he had been outraged and had almost killed her in her sleep that night.

 

After he had left his parents “care” at the age of eighteen, in a fit of rage (and in fear), he had quietly sworn to himself that he would _never_ be hit again. He had also sworn that if anybody ever tried to raise a fist to him again, he would kill the son of a bitch who had raised the hand toward him in the first place.

 

Teresa had gotten a free pass, mainly because he had realized that her _elbow hit_ was her way of saying “shut up” without directly saying it and he had forgiven her.

 

            “Have you found anything on Tracie Killian, Agent?” Kayla ignored his comment with a question for Teresa.

 

            “You mean since yesterday, Agent?” Red John asked and he felt Teresa’s glare on him. He highly doubted that she was glaring at him for his treatment of her, but instead, she was glaring at him for his blatant disrespect.

 

            “We know that Tracie’s co-worker, Joanne Ryan, said that she hadn’t seen Tracie in nearly two weeks. Apparently, Tracie was on vacation with her fiancé.” Teresa explained. Red John didn’t think Teresa needed to tell Kayla that, considering Kayla and Lancaster kept them both out of the loop. “I want to question Mr. and Mrs. Shannon about…”

 

Kayla shook her head, as she had done yesterday afternoon. “Agent Lancaster will ask all of the questions to the Shannon’s. Your unit is merely assisting us.”

 

Red John snorted and Kayla glanced at him, her eyes slightly narrowed. “We’re doing more than Agent Lancaster is, Agent Rivet. You shouldn’t forget that.”

 

            “Mr. Jane.” Kayla sounded displeased, which made him happy. “I don’t disrespect you. Don’t disrespect me or my boss.” Red John gritted his teeth at her response. Kayla, whether she knew it or not, had insulted him directly and each additional comment that the woman made about Red John or his “disrespect” only made him want to slit her throat more.

 

Kayla’s soft skin would be so easy to part through with a sharp-enough knife, but he couldn’t do it. Not yet anyway. He was Patrick Jane _not_ Red John at the moment.

 

He glanced back at Teresa, who had her entire focus on Kayla and he wondered what would happen _after_ he had gained his own body back. He had a feeling he would be back to one-night stands with random women who meant absolutely nothing to him and countless days in hiding as he didn’t want to be apprehended by the FBI or the CBI.  He also wouldn’t be able to continue on with Teresa and the thought of that depressed him. Patrick would have her to himself again and Red John most certainly did not want to push those two together as it would just make him sick.

 

He had given some thought to quitting Red John to keep Teresa, but there was always the chance that the CBI would stumble upon him as they had nothing else to chase and he had also considered persuading Teresa to join him through the use of brainwashing and hypnotism (Patrick wasn’t the only one with skills), however brainwashing and hypnotism had its limits of what could happen and what wouldn’t happen.

 

Which had left him with only one reasonable thing left to do: convince the CBI and the FBI, without a doubt, that Patrick Jane was Red John.

 

If he went that route, Red John doubted that he wouldn’t have much trouble convincing some. Agent Darcy continued to doubt Patrick’s innocence as her constant drop-ins proved that and Agent Wainwright continued to believe Patrick was a psychopath, even though the difference between a psychopath and a serial killer was astonishing.

 

Teresa and her unit though would be the tricky part. How could he convince them of Patrick’s evil without leaving Patrick’s DNA on everything at a crime scene and just giving them him on a silver platter, as he couldn’t make it that easy for them?

 

Red John frowned. He needed a plan; a sure fire way to incriminate Jane and to bring Teresa down with him. He knew he couldn’t just kill someone in his own style and leave Patrick’s fingerprints as it would look like a frame job and Red John wanted Patrick completely out of the picture with the CBI and with Teresa.

 

Obviously, Teresa wouldn’t believe her precious Patrick to be a serial killer right away, but by the time the evidence came to light; she’d have no choice but to place all of her beliefs in her little, corrupt justice system that he had rigged for them both.

 

And as far as convincing the team, he had many plans. He just needed a catalyst.

 

            “…Lancaster is worried that Mr. Jane might pick a fight with the already unstable Shannon’s. It’s nothing again you, Agent Lisbon; it’s all about Mr. Jane and his apparent lack of empathy for others.” Kayla’s voice cut through his thoughts and he opened his mouth to tell her off when she started to speak again. “We’ve all heard stories of how he handles suspects during Red John cases; he’s a rude, careless and heartless bastard, who doesn’t care about anybody but himself.” Red John restrained a smile. He had completely forgotten about Patrick’s behavior during one of his cases. “Agent Lancaster fears that Mr. Jane might say something he shouldn’t.”

 

And just like that, the catalyst became abundantly clear.

 

Red John was Patrick Jane’s catalyst. Red John needed to kill one final time.

 

The final murder would send “Patrick” over the edge and his later actions against the team (and Teresa) would be seen as a man wanting to play a game not as an insane man. Patrick Jane would be convicted as Red John and he would have Teresa Lisbon in his own body; the most befitting end to the unrequited love story of the little lamb Teresa Lisbon and her so-called Mary, Patrick Jane.

Red John continued to smile. He had the inklings of a plan and all he needed to do was get and kill Kayla Rivet alone; _after all_ , he thought, _every good cause needs at least one sacrifice._

 


	9. Chapter 9

**9—**

****

 

Red John perched himself on the edge of Teresa’s bed as he waited for the brunette to join him. His foot tapped against the floor in impatience and he glanced toward the alarm clock that read 9:30 PM in neon numbering.

 

He had been waiting for Teresa for the past hour; both of their dinners simmered on the stove, though he doubted that she knew he had broken into her home to fix her something a little different than the usual takeout in her refrigerator. Nearly two hours ago, Teresa had sent him a small text about how she had to completely wrap up the Killian case and meet with Wainwright before she could leave the CBI. Red John hadn’t thought that the meeting or the closing of the case would take all night, considering Wainwright didn’t tend to hold long one-on-one meetings and how they had nobody to arrest; Avery Quentin had taken his fiancée, Tracie Killian into the Applewood Trails and had shot her in the abdomen for Jordan Eager. However, Avery apparently hadn’t anticipated on his fiancée already knowing about Jordan and poisoning the left-over chicken that Avery had taken from his shared home with Tracie to share in bed with Jordan.

 

Grace had called the case a “twisted soap opera” and he had quietly agreed with the little tramp; Avery could have left his fiancée to stay with Jordan, but no, the man had thought he could have everything he wanted in his hands.

 

_He was a true idiot_ , Red John thought with a smirk. If Avery had killed Tracie from the very beginning of his affair with Jordan, Avery would have never died and he could have had kept his little boy toy all to himself. Nobody liked to be toyed with and Avery had died for his sheer stupidity.

 

Although, in his time with the Serious Crimes Unit, he had learned that killers often thought they were smarter than they actually were. The woman with the poker face, the man with the “air tight” alibi, the brother who loved his sister, the mother who only tried to do the best for her children all had one thing in common when the CBI finally caught them for their crimes—their egos and hubris. Teresa had arrested all of those people for the murder of their loved ones and enemies on account of _justice_ yet she hadn’t even arrested Patrick, who had murdered two men directly and fifteen individuals indirectly.

 

Dumar Hardy and Timothy Carter, of course, had both been killed by Patrick; both of them would have led promising lives within his organization, if Patrick hadn’t felt the need to pull the trigger at every little scare or situation that came his way. Hardy would have never killed Teresa as pointing the gun in her direction had only been meant as a warning sign for everyone involved and Timothy Carter, if Patrick had listened closely enough, hadn’t been the actual Red John that had killed his wife and child. Patrick had rushed into the situation without the details and yet Teresa still kept him around to _close cases_.

 

Of course, Teresa kept Patrick around for other reasons besides _closing cases_. Her reasons were probably the same reasons he kept her around now, which he didn’t mind at all; attraction or not, she was a good lay.

As for the fifteen indirect deaths, Patrick had brought those upon himself. Yes, Red John had either pulled the trigger or given the order for the deaths to happen but if Patrick had just kept his head down and stopped pulling his idiotic stunts, nobody would have ever had to die.

 

Angela and Charlotte Jane had died due to Patrick’s mouth and carelessness; back then, Patrick had been blind and he had opened his eyes to a whole new world through the use of a knife; that it was completely possible to lose somebody because of your thoughtless blabber and your refusal to pay attention to them. In his opinion, Patrick was a fool and fools always needed to be taught how to appreciate what they once had.

 

Jared Renfrew and his tasteless lady friend’s painful end had been due to Patrick’s need to stick his nose into everybody’s business. If the blonde had just _left_ Renfrew behind bars, nobody would have needed to die and Red John would have never needed to step foot into a disease-ridden Tijuana motel room with enough viruses to kill a priest.

 

Samuel Bosco, his team and Rebecca had been collateral damage, much like Teresa had made herself out to be. Patrick should have never pulled the trigger on Hardy as his trigger happiness had been one of the main reasons (besides the apparent dislike for the FBI) that Virgil Minelli had brought in an additional team to take over the Red John case. Fortunately for him and his murderous ways, Bosco hadn’t been intelligent when he had hired Rebecca and Rebecca had attempted to take him out without a second thought. Teresa should have learned then that Patrick was a dangerous person to be around, but no. She was completely _loyal_ to him and would do anything for him and her loyalties, he knew, would eventually get them all killed; it was a habit he would be happy to break her from.

 

While he hadn’t actually killed Kristina Frye, Red John technically considered her to be “dead” as her body was a mute within a psychiatric ward. Patrick had indirectly caused the torture that he had gifted upon the fraud of a psychic for forgetting the minor detail that he had been the one to cause his family’s murder. Red John wasn’t vain or selfish, but Patrick was and that would never change. Patrick had always needed to have everything for himself (the beautiful woman to be his wife, the collection of beautiful cars that he had stored away somewhere off the grid, and more money than he could ever truly need), and hopefully Patrick had learned that one should never live above their means.

 

_Once a carney_ , Red John thought, _always a carney_.

 

Deep down, Red John knew he couldn’t escape the status quo. Children from abusive homes, he had once remembered reading, were bound to cause more problems as adults and that was why he had always kept to himself. He hadn’t ever wanted to become a serial killer but the darkness fostering within him, always just under the surface, had become so great until he hadn’t been able to ignore it anymore and the knife had just felt right in his hands. And his first known kill as Red John had made him feel something other than the _emptiness_ and _rage_ that he had continuously felt from the moment that his father had first beat him with a belt; it made him feel _powerful_ and who didn’t enjoy feeling powerful? He had enjoyed controlling the flow of the red blood from the body to the floor; he had loved the symphony of screams that he had conducted with his knife and the adrenaline that had pumped through his veins, as he had made that first jarring cut through warm skin and soft flesh, had been so intoxicating that he couldn’t help but keep coming back for more.

 

Red John was a sadist; he had never killed or injured animals as a small child and he had never had an overly strong emotional attachment to his mother (outside of the fact that the woman had given birth to him, she had paid for her sins in the form of bloodletting when he had been thirteen-years-old), but he had known from the moment that he had watched his mother drag a razor across her own pale wrists and had allowed for the bathtub to be painted red with her life as she had drawn a smiley face with her wrist against the white back wall of the tub that watching _others_ be in pain brought him a certain amount of enjoyment that hurting himself would never bring.

 

_“Living vicariously through the pain of others_ , _”_ Orville Tanner had once called it after Red John had confessed to him about watching his mother die and he had immediately agreed with him. Shortly after father and son had put the woman to rest, Red John had tried to duplicate the same feelings of enjoyment by dragging a knife across his own skin, but nothing had happened aside from a nasty scar on his inner arm and the knowledge that he had spent three days unconscious due to his father’s hand.

 

Red John clenched his fists together and inhaled sharply. Going down that line of thought was extremely dangerous, especially when Teresa could walk into her bedroom at any given moment and see him consumed with rage. He didn’t want to hurt her yet and with the way he was currently presenting himself, he knew that he would lash out and he would bring his hand against her face which would ruin everything that he had worked for.

 

_Fifteen indirect deaths_ , Red John tried to distract himself, _how did Patrick cause fifteen indirect deaths?_

Patrick hadn’t taken the lighter to Todd Johnson, O’Laughlin had; but Patrick had caused the man’s death by just being there. If it had been anybody else investigating the crimes that Johnson had committed, the man would have still been alive and Red John wouldn’t have felt the need to recruit others more useless.

 

And of course, there was Craig O’Laughlin. Red John continued to clench his fists tightly together out of annoyance. O’Laughlin would have left Grace, Teresa and Madeleine Hightower alone if Patrick hadn’t called Teresa to tip her off to him being the mole. Red John hadn’t been too thrilled with O’Laughlin after he had fallen _in love_ with Grace, but after he had given it much thought, he had realized that gifting O’Laughlin with his heart’s desire would have held benefits for them both. O’Laughlin would have had Grace as his beautiful wife and Red John could have used O’Laughlin’s love for Grace to turn her into another one of his accomplices.

 

It really was such a shame that O’Laughlin had died too; the young agent had been going places and Patrick had taken that all away from him with one ill-fated phone call.

 

James Panzer, the San Joaquin Killer, had been slaughtered due to Patrick’s unflattering need to prove everyone else wrong. Red John would have eventually made himself known to the world again as he had been waiting for the opportune moment to strike, but Patrick just had to hurry him along by provoking Panzer into slandering him on national television. Red John had briefly considered allowing Panzer to get away with his words but if he hadn’t killed Panzer, Agent Darcy would have never provided with the inklings to a perfect plan. The San Joaquin Killer, who had thought himself to be more difficult to kill than Red John, hadn’t been anything to be worried about.

 

The entire state of California would eventually forget about the San Joaquin Killer, but nobody would forget about Red John. The San Joaquin Killer would become a mere footnote in some Californian tourist guide, while Red John would live on forever in the fierce reminder of a bloody red smiley face left above a sea of lifeless bodies.

 

He unclenched his fists and smiled to himself. Everybody felt the need to be remembered in some way, good or bad, and he had done just that. He would go down in infamy, along with the likes of the Zodiac killer and Jack the Ripper for having taken so many victims and having avoided the police for so long.

 

His last kill within his own body though, the morgue attendant, had died because of Patrick’s lies to both the CBI and the FBI. If the fool had just told Wainwright and Darcy that Timothy Carter wasn’t _actually_ Red John and that the real Red John was still alive, the death of the youthful morgue attendant would have never needed to happen.

 

Patrick had caused all of those deaths and he would continue to kill all of those closest to him, until the Serious Crimes Unit had dwindled down from five members to only one.

 

            “Hey.” Teresa’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he glanced up from the floor to stare at her, a smile on his lips. Teresa had no idea of what he was planning for her and for her unit and he had to keep it that way, as the woman would never understand that all of his actions were for her. “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t expect Wainwright’s meeting to drag thirty minutes longer than usual, but apparently he needed to discuss the budget cuts and how they would affect our unit.” Teresa hadn’t even bothered asking him on how he had gotten into her home, although he figured that she probably knew how. It wasn’t, after all, rocket science on how to break into a home for him or for Patrick Jane.

 

Red John watched as Teresa stood in front of him, her back to him, as she shrugged off her black jacket and it fell to the floor. He took a moment to stare at Teresa’s toned arms before she pulled off her shirt and allowed it to fall to the floor moments later and he was left to admire her pale backside, decorated with the faintest of scars.

 

He stood from the bed and wrapped his arms around her waist. Red John rested his chin on her shoulder as they stared at each other within Teresa’s white vanity mirror. Teresa looked amused at his behavior and he grinned at their reflections within the light of her room; he had often imagined them standing together, his arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, from within his own body and his lips twitched. In Patrick’s body, he felt the overwhelming need to be gentle and kind with her. In his own body though, he wouldn’t be so kind and gentle to her; he would give her what she truly deserved and he would take great pleasure in it.

 

            “What are you smiling at?” Teresa asked him with her brows furrowed and he chuckled in response.

 

            “You and how lucky I am.” He half lied. Teresa rolled her eyes. “What?” He asked her with a laugh. “You don’t believe me?”

 

            “No, I don’t.” Teresa argued. “It seems that every time you compliment me, we end up having sex.”

 

            “And how is that a bad thing?”

           

            “It wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Teresa coyly admitted, “if I wasn’t tired.”

 

Red John briefly pressed his lips against her neck. “Giving compliments never killed anyone, Teresa. You rarely get told that you’re beautiful and that’s what I’m doing.” Teresa remained quiet and he trailed his lips down her neck, nipping at her soft skin every so often. “Beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe you though.” He continued with his lips at her neck; the hum of the air conditioning and the hurried breaths from her were the only things that he heard, as he moved his hands from her stomach and quickly moved to unhook her bra with his nimble fingers.

 

The offending object fell to the floor and he watched her kick it away from them with her feet, before he glanced back at their reflection; Teresa’s pert pink-tipped nipples and achingly swollen jutted breasts stared back at him, before he captured them both with his hands. Red John could feel her heartbeat in his hands and he continued to smile; almost every serial killer wished to control all of their enemies and he had gotten what he had wanted from her and so much more.

 

            “I thought you said no sex.” Red John teased her.

 

            “This isn’t sex.” Lisbon answered as she leaned against him. “This is comfort between two people after a long day of work.” His smile grew at her words as he had said the same thing when they had gotten together for the first time. Red John slowly moved his fingers to massage each breast; he could feel them rising at his touch and he focused his attention on their reflection again. Teresa seemed relaxed with her head rolled back and her eyes closed as he continued with his ministrations against her soft breasts and his heart constricted slightly at the sight before him.

 

_She’s beautiful_ , Red John thought, _and she’s all mine_.

 

He heard her moan lightly as he brushed his fingers over her hardened nipple and his smile became a small smirk. Patrick would have never been able to fully satisfy Teresa; he would have been able to get her into the bed and he would have been able to have sex with her, but he would have never been able to make _love_ to her or drive her wild with the littlest things as Patrick would have never been capable of that ability. Patrick only knew of revenge and loss, he knew nothing of the sensibility and sensuality that it took to keep a woman truly happy and satisfied.

 

            “We should take this to the bed.” Teresa suggested, breathlessly and he pressed his lips against her neck again. He would have loved to fuck her again as he hadn’t had his cock in her for almost two days and while the idea was extremely tempting, he knew he couldn’t. Red John had other things to do and having sex with her would made him exhausted and he couldn’t be exhausted when killing, as mistakes were made out of exhaustion.

 

            “I have dinner on the stove for us both.”  Red John told her. “It won’t keep for much longer.” He watched Teresa open her eyes and pull her lips into a firm smile, before she wriggled her away around in his grasp to face him; her firm breasts pressed against his clothed chest.

 

            “I guess we’ll have to be quick then, now won’t we?” Teresa pressed her lips against his and he felt her hands lingering around the waistband of his pants. Even if she hadn’t done anything yet to deserve the comment, she was still going to be the death of him and before he could even blink, he felt his pants fall to his ankles.

 

Red John watched Teresa fall to her knees with a soft smile as he felt her stroke her nimble fingers across his swollen dick. The gentle touch she provided made him ache for more and he told her as much without words; his hands buried themselves in her hair and he moved his attention back to his reflection. He felt her warm breath against his head and he shivered in pleasure while he waited for her take his length into her mouth and swallow him whole. The little minx though, he knew, wouldn’t make everything so dry and simple—Teresa tended to tease with that little tongue of hers and he had discovered that he liked it as foreplay made the actual act a million times better.

 

He felt Teresa’s tongue behind his head; her wet tongue felt like dry ice against his dick and he inhaled sharply with his mouth as she continued to tease. Her tongue danced across every inch of skin and he felt it circle the tip of his dick before she took his arousal into her mouth and sucked.

 

Red John threw his head backwards and closed his eyes, mindful of not hurting her with his hands that he still had buried in her hair as he kept her on her knees. The feeling of her mouth wrapped around him; her teeth gently scraping against the sensitive skin, her tongue lathering every inch she could fit into her mouth and the knowledge that she was submitting herself to him, sent him over the edge in a fit of ecstasy and he came within her mouth with a loud, shuddering bellow.

 

His lungs fought for air as she continued to coax him into a continued state of ecstasy, until she finally pulled away from him and he had a chance to refill his lungs with air once again. Red John didn’t bother to glance at her again as he hurriedly bent down and pulled up his boxers and pants to rest on his hips again.

 

            “Why don’t you go take a shower?” Red John suggested to her as he worked to redo the button on his dark navy blue pants. “I’ll go and put our dinner on the table.” He glanced up from his silver button to find Teresa in front of him, her arms crossed against her breasts and he sighed inaudibly. He had allowed for the woman to pleasure him yet the woman wanted more from him? Red John indiscreetly rolled his eyes at her hot-and-cold behavior before he pressed his lips against hers again. She responded to his touch and he pulled away from her with a small, teasing smile. “If you don’t want your kitchen to catch fire, you better take your shower.”

 

He watched Teresa narrow her eyes. “If you cause my kitchen to go on fire, you’re paying to fix it.” Red John waved her off; Teresa’s threats were extremely hollow and they held absolutely no water to them, whatsoever. He knew he had Teresa wrapped so tightly around his finger that she would never do anything to him, outside of giving him more paperwork to complete, which was nothing.

 

            “The sooner you let me go, the less chances you have of a charred ceiling and higher insurance premium.” Red John responded, teasingly and Teresa rolled her eyes in response. “You’ve worked hard, love. A little you-time before dinner certainly couldn’t hurt.” Teresa opened her mouth and he interrupted her again. “I’ve cooked for you before. I know where everything in your kitchen is.” He had made her breakfast after their first time together and while she had been mortified that he had gone through her kitchen without permission, she had immediately calmed down after the first bite of pancake.

 

Teresa’s shoulders dropped slightly and Red John knew that he had won. “What are we having for dinner?”

 

            “You’ll find out soon enough, I promise.” Red John told her and before she could say anything else, he pressed his lips against the temple of her forehead and left the bedroom to finish the second-to-last part of his brilliant plan. 

* * *

 

Carefully, he placed both plates of chicken alfredo down on Teresa’s wooden table within her brightly lit kitchen before he took a seat and poured them both a glass of red wine. Red John watched Teresa take a slow sip her of wine with a smile across his lips and waited—somewhat impatiently—for her to start in on her still-warm plate of pasta.

 

            “Lancaster came to see me today, right before my meeting with Wainwright.” Teresa stated as she picked up her fork near the plate and stabbed one of the corkscrew noodles with it.

 

            “What does he want now?” Red John asked her, though he wasn’t interested in the topic of work or Lancaster’s stupidity. He just wanted Teresa to eat her meal that he had laced with a date rape drug, so he would be free to kill Kayla Rivet without Teresa’s knowledge that had even left her side in the first place.

 

            “Lancaster wanted to apologize for his behavior.” Teresa said, in between chews. “He said that he should have allowed for us to question the Shannon’s, as we might have closed this case much faster.”

 

            “We might have also gotten a fresh lead on Elizabeth Shannon for him, as well.” Red John replied after he had taken a sip from his own wine glass. Teresa nodded in agreement.

 

            “Do you think she’s still alive?”

 

Red John blinked in her direction, the wine glass still pressed against his lips. “Elizabeth Shannon is most likely dead.” _And buried in her parents’ basement_ , Red John added quietly. They had been allowed into the Shannon’s home once and the family; a perfectly “happy” set of two parents and a young son, had just screamed warning to him. The young boy—Gabe—had seemed genuinely troubled at the loss of his big sister but the parents hadn’t even batted an eye at the thought of losing their firstborn child. “Probably better off that way though.” He muttered under his breath. No child deserved to be treated poorly by their parents and he wondered if young Elizabeth Shannon had often wished herself dead, much like he had once done every time his father had stepped into the room with something to beat him with.

 

            “Why do you say that, Patrick?” Teresa questioned and he heard the soft clink of her silverware hitting together.

 

            “It’s been more than forty-eight hours since her abduction.” Red John lied. “Any chance that the little girl had to be found alive would have diminished by now.” Teresa said nothing and he heard her swallow roughly.

 

            “This is good.” Teresa quietly stated and he silently thanked her for the subject change. “Where did you get the sauce though? It tastes a bit strong.” Red John briefly took his eyes off of her to glance down at the plate to find that she had eaten almost half of the food.

 

            “I bought all of this from the counter mart up the street; I had to make the sauce from scratch.” Red John said. Teresa had almost nothing in her kitchen, aside from coffee and the random piece of fruit, which wouldn’t have helped him create a meal for her. “They have good bread.” Teresa shook her head, but took another bite of her food anyway. “Is there something wrong with my cooking?”

 

            “You tell me.” Teresa replied with a gesture toward his untouched plate. “You haven’t eaten any yet.” Without argument, he grabbed his own fork and took a bite of the food.

 

He made a face. “It needs more salt.” Teresa chuckled softly as she handed him the salt shaker from atop the table and he poured a small amount into his food. “I think I might have also added a little too much cheese. I’m not entirely too sure, but nothing can ever have enough salt.”

 

            “A lot of things can have more than enough salt, Patrick.” Teresa argued, before she pressed her hand to her mouth and yawned. He raised his eyebrow in surprise; he hadn’t thought that the drug would have worked that quickly although the combination of a date rape drug and a glass of wine might have helped speed the process along. “Popcorn, for instance.” She continued on, after she had finished her yawn. “Overly buttered popcorn is fine. Overly salted popcorn is not. Nobody wants salty popcorn.”

 

            “Aside from the birds, who I’m sure would eat anything given the chance.” Red John pointed out to her and Teresa stifled yet another yawn behind her hand. “Tired?”

 

Teresa shook her head. “It’s been a long day. The shower didn’t help much, I guess.”

 

            “Ah.” Red John knew she was lying, but he wasn’t about to call her on it in case the comment made him look suspicious. Instead, he chose to offer her more wine. “Would you like some more wine?”

 

            “Sure.” Teresa held out her half-empty wine glass and he topped the glass off for her with his own glass of wine. He watched her take another sip before she slowly sat the glass down on the table and stood from her seat, while her body wobbled dangerously. Red John continued to smile.

 

_It’s show time_ , he thought.

 

            “What’s wrong, Teresa?” Red John asked, feigning concern. Teresa glanced at him, her eyelids slowly drooping. “Teresa?” He repeated softly.

 

            “I think I’m going to bed. To sleep.” Teresa muttered. “All of a sudden, I’m sleepy.”

 

            “Let me help you.” Red John offered his assistance and he stood from his seat to take hold of her upper arm; her body wobbled dangerously again as he started to help her back to her bedroom. Teresa said nothing to him until after he had freed her from all of her clothing and had pulled the blue comforter to her chin.

 

            “Love you.” The brunette muttered with her eyes closed after he had finished pressing his lips against her warm forehead. Red John stared down at her, his throat suddenly tight with some foreign emotion.

 

            “You don’t love me.” Red John muttered. His voice was tight. “You love Patrick. You always have.”

 

The room fell silent again, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and Teresa’s soft breaths, as the woman’s breathing eventually evened off into a deep and restful sleep. Red John stepped away from her bedside and cursed under his breath and not for the first time, Red John hated Patrick Jane with every fiber of his being for having picked Teresa Lisbon as his closest and dearest ally. 

* * *

 

Red John scowled, as he eyed the stalled Chevy vehicle on the side of the road; the yellowing headlights from the old vehicle shone brightly, while the driver—little miss high and mighty of Missing Persons, Junior Agent Kayla Rivet—held her hand to her ear. He chuckled to himself at the dread he knew she ultimately felt, before he pulled up behind her vehicle and opened his car door to be greeted by the Californian heat.

 

            “Mr. Jane?” Dear Kayla sounded so very confused to see him and her confusion-laced tone was like music to his ears, as he slowly approached her. He watched her remove the sleek cellphone from her ear, looking slightly distressed at the smoke coming from her vehicle. “What are you doing here?”

 

            “I live in this part of town.” Red John said, coolly. Kayla accepted his lie with the nod of her pretty little head. “I was driving home, when I noticed you.” He eyed her smoking vehicle in contempt. Whichever one of his men had tampered with her vehicle had done an excellent job of masking any foul play and he felt the bizarre need to reward them, which he quickly squashed in silent disgust. He allowed his men the gift of living for perfectly executing every order, and he only acknowledged their silly mishaps and screw-ups with death. Even months after the procedure, Jane’s intrinsically “goodness” still lingered and it continued to half-amuse him and half-disgust him. Kayla shook her head with a frown, ultimately removing a lock of hair from her loose ponytail. He watched the stray lock cascade down her bare and slim shoulders, for the woman must have removed her suit jacket due to the heat, and Red John bristled with masked excitement.

 

Kayla’s life would soon cascade through her hair, down her back, onto his gloved fingers, into the glorious shape of a smiley face upon her wall, which would grace others with a much higher meaning than what her life was ultimately worth. Red John knew that he had to gain her trust first and then gain access into her home, before he could even acknowledge her truth purpose via death.

 

            “I honestly have no clue.” Kayla interrupted his thoughts with the shrug of her shoulders. She uncrossed her arms from her chest. “One moment, my vehicle was fine and the next? Everything is smoking and my car is making strange noises.” A nervous laugh escaped her, as she crossed her arms against her chest to stare down at her vehicle. “I was getting ready to pop the hood when you pulled up, but the latch is stuck.” He nearly smirked at the visible lie written across her face. Women like Kayla—headstrong yet lacking in the natural ability to lie—were so naïve and predictable, it was almost pathetic. Even without sparing her arms a glance, he could see the usual signs of lying in her face—difficulty in maintaining eye contact and the slight reddening of her face—and he could hear the lie in her voice, which made him itch to pull out his knife with the intention to punish her where she stood. Habitual liars, like Kayla Rivet, had absolutely no place in the world and he knew she would eventually get her comeuppance.

 

Of course, he’d let her think that she had gotten away with her lie, just so her punishment was a million times sweeter for them both.

 

            “I’ve never been good with cars.” Red John replied; his father, before his tragic death, had always been a natural in the shop and with his hands. Red John mentally smirked. His father had once said he’d never be good with his hands, and he had shown that bastard differently. Kayla’s frown deepened. “However, I _can_ give you a lift home. It’s the least I can do for a fellow CBI comrade.” He flashed a warm and genuine smile toward her, hoping to draw her into his fabricated web of safety but the hesitation written across her face told him she wasn’t completely stupid or naïve. After all, how much of a coincidence could it be to run into somebody you had just exchanged heated words with almost every day during a case, in the middle of nowhere? He could almost hear her thoughts, which bounced around in her head: _what he is doing out here? Should I trust him?_ He continued to smile, as he spoke again. “I’ve been told that the heat is more dangerous than the raccoons,” he spared a quick look at the surrounding moonlit forest, “or maybe it’s the other way around?” He heard her nervously laugh and he knew, before she even opened her mouth to speak again, that he had her right where he wanted her: trapped with no way out.

 

            “Okay,” Kayla said with a hesitant smile, “just let me grab my purse.” He nodded in allowance and watched her turn around to open her car door, before he allowed himself the smallest of victory smirks to creep across his face.

 

Agent Kayla Rivet would be his first of many victims as Patrick Jane and his last as Red John. It, of course, would sting to see all the credit for Red John to go to Patrick, but Red John had extremely important plans that hinged on the hope that Patrick would go down for all of his crimes.

 

He heard her car door slam shut and he wiped the smirk off his face; he didn’t want to scare her off, especially after all of the hard work he had put into get her to say yes. Kayla turned to face him and he led her to his vehicle, where she opened the passenger door and got into the vehicle before he opened the driver side and sat down.

 

            “Where do I go from here?” Red John asked after he had shut the driver side door. Kayla glanced around the vehicle, which he ignored; the lack of having of a seatbelt wouldn’t kill her, he was positive of that one. “Agent Rivet?” Kayla glanced back at him.

 

            “Keep going straight,” she finally responded, “my house is at the bottom of the hill.” Red John started the vehicle once again and in the silence, they drove on. From the corner of his darkened vision, he could tell that Kayla was on edge and he smiled faintly; Kayla, even after she had left them all, still irked him. She had annoyed him with her constant visits and with her never-ending low blows toward Red John. He shifted his attention from her to the road ahead, where he noticed that all the houses along the dark stretch of road were completely isolated by yards of land and gated entrances.

 

Except for the gated entrances, Kayla’s neighborhood was absolutely perfect. He could torture her for hours on end and nobody would hear her musical screams or come running, which made his last kill the most savory. “My house is this one coming up.” Kayla leaned forward and pointed her finger toward the medium-sized white house hidden behind a light-framed iron cast gate. Red John nodded, as they slowly rolled up to the gate and Kayla motioned for him to roll down his window. “Type in 64892.” He nodded again, before he stuck his hand out the window and pressed his fingers against the smooth silver keypad. The gate slowly parted open and they continued forth onto the expansive property. “Once you leave, the gate will open automatically.” He said nothing again until he parked in her empty driveway, his headlight beams bright against the white paint of her garage double doors. He turned his vehicle off, before she spoke again. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Jane”

 

            “It’s no problem, Agent Rivet.” Red John answered, as she opened the car door. “Have a good evening. I’ll see you around.” Kayla nodded and he watched her step from the vehicle, hesitantly. Voicing his falsified concern, he spoke up. “Is something the matter, Agent?” He doubted that she suspected that anything was wrong, considering she had given him the passcode into her home.

 

Kayla bit her lip, her face flushing in the pale moonlight. “You gave me a ride home; the least I can do is offer you a drink before you go.” Red John merely smiled. Agent Kayla Rivet, owner of a registered gun or not and dealer of serial killers, had just made it a million times easier for him to exploit and end her.

 

_What an innocent little lamb_ , he thought with a large smile and a brisk nod to her; _I’m ready to lead her to the slaughter_.

 

He opened his car door slowly and stepped onto the concrete of the driveway, before he followed her inside the one story home after she had unlocked her front door with a nervous laugh. She motioned him into the house and shut the door behind her. In the near darkness, the main foyer wasn’t anything impressive to look at, but it held family portraits and he grimaced at the cheerful faces. Happiness was a false front, designed to make all other emotions pale in comparison.

 

            “We have to keep our voices down,” Kayla whispered, as she led him into the kitchen and flipped on the light; the room was tastefully, if not somewhat tackily, decorated in pale blues and yellows, “my daughter is sleeping.” Kayla glanced up at him quickly; her blue eyes bright and he almost immediately recognized the look of a mother’s pride upon her shadowed face. Her look of pride was enough for him to decide that the killing of Kayla _and_ her precious daughter would be the most perfect exit strategy and the beginning springboard for Jane’s “psychotic break”. Two final killings; a mother and her precious youth, much like his first two vengeful killings of Angela and Charlotte Anne Jane had been, would spark his final plan into action. Red John heard the gentle hum of the refrigerator and he glanced down from the blue ceiling to stare at Kayla, whose body became bathed in the pale yellow light from the appliance. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any beer.”

 

            “That’s all right.” Red John replied. “I don’t drink beer.” It wasn’t technically a lie, but she didn’t need to know that. He tended not to drink any alcoholic beverage on the nights that he had planned to kill someone, even if the wine from earlier had been the rare exception to make Teresa relax.

 

            “I have water, soda, pink lemonade, or milk.” Kayla spoke again, as she glanced back down within her medium-sized refrigerator. “Although,” he watched her pick up the white milk carton, “the milk might be spoiled. Kenny, my forgetful husband, doesn’t exactly remember to check these things. His job keeps him away most of the night as he works as a security guard for California National Bank” The night just kept getting better and better. A little girl _and_ a husband, who wouldn’t discover his wife or child until well after they had already been killed and he was long gone from the scene.

 

            “I think I’ll have some pink lemonade, if that’s okay?” She nodded and he watched her grab the see-through container from the refrigerator, as he slid into one of the barstools at the dark marble kitchen island. Neither of them anything, until Kayla poured the pink liquid into a purple mug and sat it down in front of him. “Thank you,” he said, as he held the cup to his lips and sipped—pink lemonade, while not his absolute favorite, had a bitter taste and he liked it for the taste that lingered on the tip of his tongue.

 

She took her own cup and joined him on the opposite side, before she said anything. “You’re an extremely peculiar man, Mr. Jane.” He glanced at her over the rim of his cup. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. Yet, you helped me. Why?” Of course, Kayla would voice those questions within the safety of her own kitchen; it was a common phenomenon for all women, who thought they could protect themselves. Kayla knew she had protection within her home, she just didn’t know he had ways around those protections.

 

            “And not get the chance to gloat?” Red John teased. Kayla’s cheeks flared bright red. “I did save Junior Agent Kayla Rivet from the various dangers lurking in the dark, after all.” Kayla rolled her eyes in response and he finished off his cup of pink lemonade with a smile.

 

            “Thanks again though,” she responded, “Kenny won’t be home till late and I hate leaving my daughter by herself.” He waved her thanks off. “Let me walk you to the door.”

 

 He stepped off the barstool, before he addressed her. “Agent Rivet, may I use your bathroom first?” Kayla nodded and she motioned for him to follow her down a long dark hallway, which was adjacent to the now dark kitchen.

 

            “The bathroom is in here.” Kayla told him, as she stepped into the room and the hallway became flooded with light. Red John nodded and stepped past her into the colorful fish decorated mess of a bathroom. “Let yourself out when you’re finished, okay?”

 

            “Sure.” He gave her a small smile, before he closed the bathroom door and turned to the bright blue shower curtain with a grimace; the neon red and yellow fish were absolutely revolting to look at. Without another thought, he began to dress himself down—he quickly shed his light gray jacket and matching vest onto the floor and rolled up his white sleeves to the crook of his elbows—before he pulled out his single pair of black kitchen gloves from his pants pocket and sat them on the porcelain sink. His gleaming and trusted kitchen knife, which he had hidden in his jacket pocket, would be removed soon enough.

 

Firstly though, he knew he needed to attend to his nearly bursting bladder. Red John turned toward the white toilet, which remained tucked away in the corner of the small room, opened the plastic lid, unzipped his pants and managed to relieve himself without completely undoing his pants. The last thing he wanted or needed, especially while killing was the urge to relieve his bladder. Leaving the victim for one moment, even if you thought they couldn’t move due to an injury, made the difference between being arrested and getting away with it—most victims, seriously injured or not, could at least get to a phone and dial 911 for various purposes. Stale urine, Red John had discovered from his first victims, lingered and nobody wanted to smell that.

 

He zipped back up his pants, flushed the toilet, closed the lid and washed his hands, before he pulled the black gloves smugly to his wrists and removed the knife from his discarded jacket pocket. Red John, with a twisted smile upon his face and a knife in his hand, left the bathroom and started down the dark hallway. Behind one of the doors, he heard hushed voices and carefully, he grasped the silver doorknob and opened the door—Kayla’s back, draped in a sexy little white number, greeted him, as she stood over the queen-sized bed.—his thoughts (and certain body parts) buzzed with the idea of having a little fun with her body, before he ended her life…but Jane’s bitch, Teresa, had already finished him off with her dirty little mouth earlier and he had felt satisfied enough (at the moment) to leave Kayla alone.

 

            “Move over, sweetie.” Red John heard the voice of a mother talking to her precious child and before he could change his mind (or she could turn to face him), he pressed the blade of his knife against her throat and sent a sickly sweet smile toward the wide-eyed blonde haired child, who stared at him unblinkingly. Kayla tried to shake him loose with her elbows, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being able to do so, as he slowly dragged the tip of his blade across her exposed throat. Kayla inhaled, sharply and she stopped struggling.

 

Red John grimaced. He had wasted all of that precious time and energy on her and she wasn’t even going to fight him back? It absolutely disgusted him.

 

            “You might as well fight me, Agent.” Red John purred into her ear; warm and comforting, soft and deadly. “I wouldn’t want your precious child to think that you’re a coward, Kayla. You’re a CBI agent. You have a gun. Do something.” Kayla made no movement again and he sighed into her ear. “If you don’t play along, I will kill your child first and I will make you watch. Can you imagine her blonde curls, matted with blood…?” Kayla struggled against him again, and he darkly chuckled. “You’re weak, Kayla. How did they ever let you into the CBI? Did you perform illicit favors for Agent Wainwright in his office?” Kayla tried to elbow him again, which he avoided with a laugh. “Did he tell you how agile and _beautiful_ you were? Does your husband know how much of a whore…?”

 

            “I’m going to blow your fucking head off!” Kayla cursed, which ultimately amused him. Kayla thought her words would scare him off, make him rethink his actions, but it never would. Her words, much like the last words from Angela Jane, would fall deaf on listening ears. “I hope you burn in hell, you asshole!”

 

Red John rolled his eyes at the all too familiar response. "There's no such thing as hell," he felt her tense against him, "and you're a fool for believing otherwise." He heard her breath hitch, and before she could scream, he sliced the sharpened blade across the throat and tossed the body away from him onto the white-sheeted bed. The blonde-haired child, who stared down at her lifeless mother in confusion, let out a high-pitched cry of mommy and daddy, when he swiftly silenced her with one shift motion of the blade across the small throat of the child.

 

He walked toward the body of the mother and stared down at her for a brief moment. He pondered about how he should go about the cutting of the figures before him.

 

Each cut meant something to him. It said, whether anyone ever realized it or not, something about him. Each cut showed a passion, a passion that could never be fulfilled with paint or a pen. The many artists that he had come across in his journeys throughout the years had always commented on paint strokes in hanging portraits on museum walls; the various emotion that was shown through every stroke of the brush that they had made. It took an artist's eye to be able to catch the minuscule amount of detail. He felt the same way when it came to how he approached cutting his victims; each cut showed raw emotion and if they had just looked close enough at the bodies, they could figure out everything that they ever needed to know.

 

However, no cop, detective, forensics team or consultant had ever looked hard enough and therefore, he had continued to get away with his killings.  With a certain amount of sadness, he realized that this would be his final kill using his signature. He had to make sure that it would be the finest piece of artwork that he had ever crafted.

 

Red John stared at the neck of Agent Kayla Rivet and considered slicing it clear through, beheading her immediately, but reconsidered. He penetrated down through her chest with great force; he could feel the knife ripping through the heart, which only served to make him smile in delight. He stopped once he hit the naval and sliced at her bare legs. He then went back to the chest. He pulled back on the skin he had just cut open, in order to get more of the seductive red liquid, and he could hear the bones crack, as he ripped her chest open; the sound, he figured, belonged to the now broken rib cage.

 

He allowed for the blood to run freely, before he moved over to the child. The child's brown eyes were open wide in fright, as they stared back at him. He knew he wouldn't have to cut as deeply into the child, since the mother would supply him with enough blood to draw his old friend onto the wall.

 

He cut down the child's chest rapidly and watched as her white nightgown, decorated with the face of a dark-haired, ruby lipped princess on the abdomen, soaked into her. He then opened the child's mouth with his gloved hand and sliced through her tongue. Red John closed her mouth and watched as blood secreted from her small mouth and ran down her cheeks. He smiled, he watched the bloody mess of mother and daughter run together and pool on the white sheets.

 

            “You’d remind him so much of his wife and child,” he felt the overwhelming need to whisper to the silence, “that is why you both needed to die.” Red John dipped three of his fingers in the bloody mess, before he moved to the empty space of wall above the two victims. “So, I can continue to live my life in harmony and he can die.” He placed his three fingers onto the wall and the grinning smile, which had given him a purpose for the past fourteen years, began to form before his very eyes for the last time. “Goodbye, my old friend.” He whispered to the face upon the wall, before he left the bedroom and softly shut the door behind him.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**10—**

 

****

Lisbon groaned, as she heard the familiar trill of her cellphone from atop her nightstand. Middle of the night phone calls never boded well, as they usually never signaled good news and all she wanted to do was ignore the call. However, she knew she couldn’t; it was ultimately her job to answer the phone at all hours of the night, even at…she paused to glance over at the alarm clock…3:15 AM. Even though her sleep-addled mind, she knew it probably hadn’t been _that_ long since she had finally curled into her bed and passed out from the exhaustion of her and Jane’s dinner together.

 

Slowly, she extended one of her arms from under her light blue comforter and grabbed her cellphone, before she clumsily lifted the device to her ear and hit the talk button.

 

            “Lisbon,” she greeted into the phone, while she felt Jane’s arm tighten around her bare waist and the softness of his lips press between her bare shoulder blades. Lisbon tried to keep the smile from her lips (and voice), as she felt herself being drawn closer to his bare chest.

 

            _“Good morning, Agent Lisbon.”_ Gale Bertram greeted, almost cheerfully and Lisbon wondered if the man ever got any sleep. _“I’m sorry for waking you at such an early hour,”_ she felt Jane’s warm fingers move across her back, as she continued to listen, _“but Red John killed one of our own last night.”_ Lisbon stiffened against Jane’s chest in apprehension, while she felt his fingers continue their little movements, unaware of her current state. Before she could ask if the victim had been anybody on her team, Bertram continued. _“Agent Rivet from Missing Persons and her daughter were murdered last night. Her husband found the bodies fifteen minutes ago.”_ Relief spread through her body like wildfire; it didn’t mean she wasn’t devastated by the death of a fellow agent (even if the agent had been an annoying presence) and her little girl, because she was. She was just relieved that none of her own team had been murdered by Red John and that all of them had yet another chance to catch the sick bastard. _“I hope it goes without me saying, Agent, that I want you and your unit to catch this twisted killer.”_ She wanted to catch him also, mainly because Red John had begun to take a toll on all of them.

 

They could only trust themselves, for Red John lurked everywhere; throughout the halls of the CBI, within their computer systems, and within other various law enforcement individuals. Lisbon hated the concept that outside of the Serious Crimes Unit, they couldn’t trust anybody else not to be working for Red John, because she had always been taught that fellow cops were good and conspiracies weren’t lurking everywhere.

 

            “It doesn’t need to be said, sir.” Lisbon replied after a moment of silence, although Bertram probably knew Red John was going to escape through their fingers again. Catching the serial killer, in her opinion, was like making Jane behave; impossible and would never cease to be unchallenging. “What’s the address?”

 

            _“I’ll text it to you.”_ Bertram disconnected the call and Lisbon frowned, as she sat her phone back down on her nightstand and waited for Bertram’s message to come through. In her initial worry about the other members of her team, she had nearly forgotten that she’d have to tell Jane about the deaths and the case, which made her feel sick to her stomach.

 

How in the world was she even going to tell Jane about Red John?

 

The topic of Red John already sent the man flying off the handle—it always had and it probably always would, which Lisbon understood. Red John had taken his wife and child, and who wouldn’t want revenge after that?—but with the added knowledge that Red John had killed an additional mother and her child, she had a feeling, that would be the part that ultimately destroyed him.

 

            “You’re tense, Teresa.” Lisbon heard Jane’s voice—low and comforting—in her ear and she shuddered, involuntarily. Her name on his lips, for whatever reason, continued to fill her with a sense of foreboding and worry. “What’s wrong?” She almost thought about lying to him, but as she removed herself from his tight hold and twisted her body away from him, she realized that he’d blindly walk onto that crime scene and receive one of the most twisted surprises of his life.

 

Jane was her best friend; he deserved her honesty and as much as she wished she could stay in the comfort of his arms, she knew she had to be his boss and not his lover for a while. Lisbon hurriedly stepped toward her walk-in closet and turned on the light to browse through her various shirts and pants, before she settled on the combination of an emerald green shirt and white-washed jeans. Her hands brushed against the rough fabric of the jeans, when she felt Jane’s hand squeeze against her bare hip—his touch both, warm and comforting.

 

            “You didn’t answer me, Lisbon.” Lisbon said nothing to him, as she pushed past his nearly naked body and stepped back into the humid bedroom. “Is something…” She didn’t let him finish his sentence.

 

            “We’ll talk about it after my shower, okay?” Lisbon didn’t wait for his response either, as she hurriedly opened one of her various drawers and grabbed a white sports bra and a pair of underwear, before she escaped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. Her fingers locked the door, even though she knew it wouldn’t keep him out for too long.

 

Quickly, she shed her nightclothes onto the bathroom floor and she turned to start the shower. The heated blast of water, she hoped, would shake the last traces of sleep from her system, as she pulled back the pale shower curtain and hopped into the shower. With her eyes closed, she stood under the blast of the water and tried to rid her mind of the imagined crime scene—the mother and daughter huddled together, bled dry and the bloody smiley upon the wall, which often haunted her dreams at night—when she felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist and she frowned again.

 

            “What part of _after my shower_ , did you not understand?” Lisbon asked, as she opened her eyes and moved her hand to grab the bar of soap from its place on her shelf. “Jane…”

 

            “We’re conserving water, Lisbon.” Jane responded and she rolled her eyes, while she lathered her body with the soap. She avoided his arms. “I think you missed a spot; me.”

 

            “You have two hands.” Lisbon stated, she heard Jane chuckle. “I’m sure you can clean your own body parts without trouble.” She felt him shift behind her, until she felt his arousal against her bare backside. She raised her eyebrows, though he couldn’t see it. “I am not going to do this with you at three in the morning, Jane.”

 

            “Do what?” She heard the grin in his voice, which made her shake her head. Honestly, it seemed like the man never stopped. “I’m only showering with you, so I can steal your keys and feel better about the environment.” Before she could offer up a rebuttal in response, she felt his lips press against her neck, which didn’t help her at all. She had planned on showering and _then_ talking to him, because she hadn’t wanted to warn him about Red John on the ride over to the crime scene. She had wanted to warn him about Red John within the safety of her living room with a warm cup of coffee at her lips, but the more his lips sucked tenderly on her neck and the more she felt the hard pulse of his arousal against her backside, the more her body burned with the unspoken desire to give into his sexual urges and let him know about Red John in the car.

 

Over the water beating down around and on them both, she heard him whisper softly into her ear. “Come on, Agent.” Lisbon was sorely tempted to kick him out of the shower, until one of his hands moved from her hips and caressed her wet breasts. “Help a man out.” His fingers, she felt, tugged gently at her aching nipples and she smacked his hand away. “I know we don’t eat breakfast, which makes me ask why we can’t put those non-used up minutes to good use? I have so many things I want to show you and do to you...”

 

Between the aching of her thighs and his caressing touch against her hips, Lisbon managed to turn her body around to face him; through the spray of the water, she could see the smirk on his wet, pink lips before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his, hard.

 

She felt his tongue slide past her slightly parted lips and his hand brush across her breasts again. Nothing was said, as she opened her eyes and watched him break the kiss to lower his mouth to her breasts, where his lips captured one of her tortured peaks and she felt him whisk it with his tongue.

 

They stayed in the shower, until the water became cold.

 

 

* * *

Dressed in the proper attire for work and out of her own personal vehicle, she flashed her CBI badge to the uniformed officers manning the area around the house as Jane joined her on the brief walk up the shortened pathway. In silence, Lisbon wondered if Red John was watching them all from somewhere afar; the Rivet home, from a quick glance of the outside, seemed as if it had plenty of places for a serial killer to hide and she quickened her steps until she passed the threshold of the home.

 

The lingering officers around the doorway regarded her with cold stares, while she and Jane started toward the scene of the crime. Lisbon scanned the various framed pictures on the wall: Kayla in a hospital bed with her little pink-blanket wrapped bundle of joy, Kayla in a white wedding dress with her husband’s arms around her, Kayla and her toddler child at Disneyland with Pluto; the little girl wore a large grin that matched her mother’s as she tugged on Pluto’s tongue within the frame. 

 

Lisbon’s heart constricted painfully within her chest. Red John had taken yet another innocent from the world; one, who hadn’t even gotten a chance to fully explore the greater things in life.

 

            “They don’t like being shown up by a woman, especially one as attractive as you.” Jane’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she shot him a look; they were at a crime scene, not within the safety of her own home. “I know you didn’t ask for a running commentary, but I thought you could use one.” His bright grin did nothing for the apprehension bubbling up within the pit of her stomach.

 

            “You thought wrong, Jane.” Lisbon wearily told him, as they both stepped into the fully-lit kitchen and her stomach clenched in worry with every step she took. Lisbon honestly had no idea how he was going to react to the fact that Red John had struck again, because when Jane wanted to hide things from her or from anybody else, he could do it extremely well. “Hey,” she stopped him at the base of the hallway, which was crowded with uniformed officers and forensic technicians. Jane turned to stare at her with a smile. “Before we go in there, you should know something…”

 

            “Good morning Boss, Jane.” Rigsby interrupted her and Lisbon glanced from Jane to Rigsby, who she thought had to have one of the worst timings ever. “The forensics team has already swept the place for prints and they have found nothing so far.” Lisbon nodded with an inaudible sigh. Would they ever find something to lead them all too arresting Red John or would they forever continue to keep chasing an invisible man? Lisbon feared the outcome for them all if they kept chasing Red John into the unknown, but she kept her mouth shut while Rigsby continued. “They’ve also finished taking the initial pictures of the bodies, but nothing else has been disturbed. Agent Lancaster has also been informed…”

 

            “Bodies? Did Agent Lancaster finally find Elizabeth Shannon?” Jane chimed in and Rigsby glanced at her. She knew exactly what he was asking with his expression: _why didn't Jane already know about the crime scene?_ Lisbon avoided his stare. Some questions are just better left unanswered. “Is this a murder-suicide, Rigsby?” Jane glanced from Rigsby to her and she frowned at his earnest expression.

 

            “Jane.” Lisbon tried again and Jane continued to stare at her, unblinkingly. She hated breaking the news to him feet from the crime scene, but she had to. He’d never forgive her if she allowed for Rigsby to tell him. “Red John struck again last night. He killed…” Before she had the chance to finish her sentence, Lisbon watched Jane sprint toward the open-door bedroom and she chased after him.

 

She joined him in the all-white bedroom, moments later. Jane’s eyes were wide and unblinking, as he silently drank in the sight of the all-too-familiar bloody smiley face on the bedroom wall; the two white-sheet covered bodies rested below the eerie signature and she reached out to touch his arm in concern. “Jane?” A quiet Jane meant nothing good.

 

            “Who did he kill?” Jane’s quiet voice sent the entire room of forensic technicians and uniformed officers into silence; she noticed his eyes focused intently on the blood-tinted white sheets and blood-splattered carpet.

 

            “Agent Kayla Rivet and her daughter, Madison Rivet.” Rigsby broke the silence from behind them. Jane said nothing as he tore his arm from her grasp and he slowly approached the bed, only to lift the sheet off both bodies. Lisbon kept her distance, but she could still see the two victims from where she stood: Kayla Rivet had been butchered; her brunette hair coated with blood and Lisbon felt sick to her stomach. Why had Red John killed her? Unlike Bosco and his unit, Rivet hadn’t been approaching on the Red John case and… _“Red John isn’t unique or smart; he’s just lucky enough not to be caught by you all.”_ Her heartbeat raced within her chest at the memory of Rivet’s words days ago. If Red John had killed Rivet because of her slander, it meant that the serial killer had stuck yet another mole within their ranks and Lisbon clenched her jaw.

 

Within a time span of four years, Red John had already placed three moles amongst them all. Dumar Hardy, the psychopath sheriff who had kidnapped Maya Plaskett for his own sick needs and who had almost killed her with a shotgun on his master’s orders, only to be killed by Jane in the end. Rebecca, the sociopath secretary who had shot Samuel Bosco and his unit for interfering on the Red John case, only to be killed by either Red John (or one of his moles) within the CBI. And lastly, Craig O’Laughlin, the smooth-talking FBI liaison who had been engaged to marry Van Pelt and who had set Todd Johnson on fire, only for him to be taken out by Hightower and Van Pelt after having shot her in the shoulder. 

 

How many more times would they have to deal with another twisted or misguided individual within the CBI, who had been sent to them by Red John? Quite frankly, Lisbon had grown tired of the mole situation by the time Rebecca had been killed and she had stopped wondering when Red John’s next mole would be placed amongst them and instead had started wondering _who_ the next mole would be.

 

Lisbon moved her eyes from Kayla’s lifeless body to Madison Rivet’s. Madison had to be at least five or six-years-old with blood-matted blonde ringlets that fanned out around her little lifeless body as if she wore a halo around her head and the look of pure fright etched upon the youth’s face made Lisbon’s heart skip a beat. How anybody could kill such a small child, the very symbol of hope and innocence without feeling any sort of remorse, was completely beyond her area of understanding. She slowly approached Jane and put her hand to his arm again, which he shook off and she frowned. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you…”

 

            “How were you to know, Lisbon?” Jane asked her, his voice painfully small. Guilt overwhelmed her, as her chest tightened painfully and she pinned her arms against her stomach. She had known about the two bodies, obviously both mother and child, but she had just never gotten around to telling him about it. “You’ve never seen pictures of my wife and child. You had no idea.” Lisbon’s frown deepened at his words. In the years that she had worked with him and on the Red John case, she had never been able to force herself to flip through the Jane family photographs (or the pictures taken on the night of their deaths) within the case file as it had felt wrong. Jane was her best friend and to glance through the pictures, even with the main purpose of catching Red John, felt like a major violation of his privacy.

 

            “Jane,” she repeated, softly. “I…”

 

“I’ll be fine.” Jane answered her in a voice a little above a whisper and she didn’t believe him for a second. Red John cases messed with his head, everybody (with the exception of Jane, apparently) knew that. “You do have a scene to work with here, I believe. So, I’m just going to step outside for some fresh air.” Lisbon opened her mouth with the intention to tell him that she didn’t think that was a good idea, but he hurried from the room before she could get the first syllable out. With a heavy sigh, she turned her eyes (and focus) back onto the grotesque scene.

 

Rigsby, who probably still stood behind her, said nothing and she was grateful for his silence. It allowed for her to put her head back on straight. 

 

            “Director Bertram said something about Agent Rivet’s husband having found them?” Lisbon voiced to Rigsby after a moment of silence as she turned to face the younger agent. Rigsby nodded, his attention focused on the notepad in his hand. Lisbon figured that he was trying to keep his eyes (and thoughts) off the small child, who had been brutally slaughtered.

 

_He’s also probably thinking about Benjamin_ , Lisbon realized with a lurching thought.

 

            “Kenneth or Kenny Rivet; thirty-years-old. Works as a night security guard for California Natural Bank.” Lisbon nodded for him to continue. “He found his wife and child like that,” Rigsby motioned toward the bed without sparing the scene a glance, “after spending all night at work. He apparently found them, tried to save their lives with CPR and then called Agent Lancaster, who placed the call to Director Bertram for us.” Lisbon glanced around the homely decorated room; the walls, decorated with various family portraits, had been painted crème and below the shimmering bloody smiley face remained a set of bloody handprints which contrasted forebodingly compared to the rest of the room. She doubted that the set of bloody handprints belonged to Red John, which meant that Kenny had left them behind; Kayla’s husband and Madison’s father had probably come home from work, expecting to find his wife and daughter already in bed asleep, only to find them both in their current state.

 

Like any good husband, Kenny had probably pressed both of his hands to his wife and little girl’s wounds to try and stop the bleeding or to feel for a pulse, before he realized that he had been too late to save them both.

 

            “Where’s Kenny now?” Lisbon asked with her attention back on Rigsby. Although she was worried about Jane and his current state of mind, she knew her work had to come first. Red John had killed yet another agent and nobody—the CBI and Bertram, included—wanted him to make a mockery out of them again.

 

“He’s down the hall, currently sitting in his daughter’s room.” Rigsby responded. “Grace is sitting with him now.” Rigsby paused to glance up at her, concern written across his face at the mention of his fellow agent. “She couldn’t…” Lisbon nodded again in understanding and she watched him glance back down at his notepad. Although Van Pelt had dealt with countless murder victims—teen and adult, female and male—the Junior Agent had never seen a child’s lifeless body. The sight of a murdered child, even for her (and she had seen the sight several times before), wasn’t easy to stomach and if they couldn’t catch Red John; she knew it would continue to haunt them all. “Kenny doesn’t seem like the suicidal type, boss, but Grace’s presence keeps him from trying anything.” Lisbon nodded. The CBI didn’t need another aimless lawsuit from a disgruntled family, because the individual had tried to kill himself as he had been left alone without supervision.  None of them were strangers to the psychological hazards that Red John presented (and knowing what she knew about Jane’s stint in the psychological ward, years ago), she was glad that Grace had taken it upon herself to sit with the victim’s husband.

 

“Where’s Cho?” Lisbon asked.

 

“He’s canvasing the outside,” Rigsby replied and he glanced back up at her, “just in case.”

 

Lisbon nodded again. “Tell him to find Jane after he’s finished.” Rigsby nodded. “We can’t have Jane wondering off, especially not after this.” Lisbon waited for Rigsby to say something about her concern for Jane, but he said nothing and she relaxed slightly. Explaining to anybody why had been even more concerned about Jane’s behavior more than usual lately would have involved a lie and Rigsby didn’t deserve that. “After you do that, you can either come back here or you can help me speak with Kenny.”

 

Rigsby seemed relieved with her order as he hurried from the bedroom and she followed close behind him. He was completely out of her sight by the time she had stopped at the door that had been painted a light pink; two uniformed officers guarded the door and she quickly flashed them her badge to gain access into the little girl’s room.

 

Madison’s room had been tastefully decorated by two parents, who had very much loved their daughter: the light pink walls matched the color of the door, her carpet was a soft lilac and the ceiling was a light blue, decorated with specks of silver glitter. Lisbon noticed the small princess-style bed for the little girl, accompanied with flowing lace curtains near the middle of the room where Kenny Rivet sat.

 

Kenny was a dark-haired and well-dressed man, who clutched one of his daughter’s large neon frogs to his chest with his bloody hands. In the soft light of the bedroom, Kenny’s clean-shaven face was pale and Lisbon noticed that he was staring aimlessly into space before she glanced at Van Pelt. Van Pelt stood near the pink-curtained windows with her arms crossed against her chest as she stared at the seemingly-cationic widow with a frown.

 

            “Has he said anything to you?” Lisbon asked Van Pelt, quietly after she had approached the Junior Agent.

 

Van Pelt didn’t take her eyes off Kenny. “He hasn’t said a word, boss.” Lisbon nodded, before she turned her attention back on Kenny and crossed her arms against her chest. She knew she had to speak with the husband as they had to rule out another possible Red John copycat, but that didn’t make it any easier; for when speaking to the family members of Red John victims, she had often been reminded of a ticking time bomb. The family member would ask the usual questions: _How could this happen? Did they feel much pain before it happened? Why my loved one and not somebody else’s?_ Sometimes, however, the flash of numbness that each family member felt at such a horrific crime bled into anger: _This is_ your _fault. If you had been able to catch Red John, I wouldn’t have to plan a funeral for them_ or _I hope he comes after you, because maybe you’ll know what it’s like to be truly_ _sorry for my loss._

She had been working on the case for almost seven years and in that amount of time, very few leads had been thrown their way. Moles were killed before they could talk, bodies were stolen from morgues and Red John left nothing for them to follow, aside from random IM chats over four years and one phone call that had happened after they had found Jared Renfrew and a prostitute slain together in a Tijuana motel bathroom. Lisbon had realized, long before her first active Red John case, that the family members weren’t angry with the officers of the law; they were angry with themselves for the things that they had never gotten the chance to say to their loved ones.

 

Her father, for example, had been angry with the uniformed officers that had shown up on their Chicago doorstep when she had been twelve to inform them that his wife, her mother, had been killed by a drunk driver. After the officers had left her childhood home, her father had immediately turned his anger on himself through the use of alcohol and in turn, she and her three brothers had paid the ultimate price for his continuous anger.

 

            “I’m going to go and speak with him.” Lisbon didn’t wait for Van Pelt’s response as she approached the raven-haired man, who still clutched his daughter’s neon frog to his chest. She uncrossed her arms from her chest and cleared her throat, but Kenny kept his eyes focused ahead. “Mr. Rivet?” Lisbon asked, softly. Kenny ignored her again. “I’m Agent Lisbon with the…”

 

            “I know who you are, Agent.” Kenny interrupted, coldly while he met her gaze with his own cold stare. “Kay told me that you are the one in charge of the Red John case, as her unit mainly deals—dealt with finding missing persons.” Lisbon nodded, wearily. Kenny had apparently skipped the states of numbness and disbelief with the murder of his family and if he _was_ angry, she didn’t exactly want to set his anger off any more than she had to. “She also said that you worked with her on a case, recently?”

 

            “We did.” Lisbon admitted. Kenny said nothing and Lisbon continued on. “Agent Rivet is—was,” Lisbon corrected with a frown, “an excellent agent, who helped us solve a triple homicide.”

 

            “Liar.” Kenny muttered and Lisbon blinked in surprise. Rivet, annoying or not, had held a crucial part of figuring out that the Shannon’s hadn’t done anything to the Killian’s. “When Kay had said you were a two-faced bitch, I thought she had just been exaggerating. But now, I can see she wasn’t.” Lisbon forced herself not to react to his spiteful words as she knew her reactions wouldn’t help them get anywhere. “Your entire damned unit is the main reason my wife and little baby girl were murdered, Agent. So please, with all due respect, you can go and rot in hell. Every single one of you.”

 

Lisbon tried to ignore the guilt gnawing within her stomach from his words. Fully justified or not though, it still stung and she was sure Van Pelt was reeling also from his words. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” She couldn’t promise Kenny that they would catch Red John, as she had learned long ago that making hollow promises did nothing good for anybody.

 

            “I’m sure you are.” Kenny muttered darkly, before he turned his head away from her. “Where’s Mark Lancaster? I want to speak with him.”

 

            “Agent Lancaster will be here shortly.” Lisbon explained.

 

Kenny pressed the toy frog to his chest again; the little toy, she noticed, had been stained red from Kenny’s hands and she was suddenly thankful that she didn’t have any children. If one of them had been killed by Red John, Lisbon had no idea what she would have done. “Good, because I want you and your fellow agent,” his eyes flickered to where Grace stood, “to leave me alone.”

 

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Rivet.” Lisbon replied. “We can’t do that.” Whether Kenny killed his family or not, Lisbon needed him to answer her questions before she could leave the man to grieve in peace.

 

            “Then the least you both can do,” Kenny said as he bared his slightly crooked teeth in Grace’s direction, “is to stay the hell away from me.”

 

In silence, Lisbon stepped away from Kenny and stood next to Van Pelt with a frown. She had a feeling that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Kenny until Lancaster made his grand appearance to comfort him. Van Pelt said nothing as they both stood in the silence of Madison’s bedroom, Lisbon’s attention focused back on the frog-hugging, blood-covered husband; his cold words continued to echo in her ears and she suddenly wished Jane was there with her as she crossed her arms against her chest again, if only to make everything a little bit easier for them all to manage once again.


	11. Chapter 11

**11—**

 

            “Are you sure?” Red John asked into his cell phone as he stood within the dingy attic of the CBI one month after he had murdered Kayla and Madison Rivet as a part of his master plan, which was all starting to finally take shape. He idly watched a spider weave its gossamer web between two cracked windows while he waited for Thomas to respond to his question.

 

Red John wasn’t in any hurry for the accomplice to answer his question though, due to the fact that he spent the past few weeks holed up in Patrick’s despicable attic and nobody—with the exception of Teresa for high-profile cases and the random sexual act—had taken to disturbing him or distracting him from whatever he had been doing on his lonesome.

 

            “I am absolutely positive, sir.” Thomas responded. Red John smirked at the sound of glee peppering his accomplice’s voice; after Patrick and Teresa, he had been waiting for almost _five years_ to destroy the other individuals on the unit. He had Patrick incapacitated—Thomas had explained nearly two weeks ago that Patrick had finally stopped having seizures and instead, had taken to lifeless staring at the ceiling within the bathroom for long hours, in and out of consciousness—Teresa wrapped around his little finger—Teresa had fallen for him and if he asked her _to jump_ for him, he had a feeling that the woman would ask _how high_?—the upper management within the CBI on edge—Wainwright had called Teresa into his office, weeks ago, to ask about his wellbeing. Teresa had lied for him, as he had told her: _I don’t want Agent Wainwright knowing that I’m going through a hard time, because I want to work this case. I need_ _to work this case, Teresa_. And Wainwright had bought the lie, but he knew the man was keeping an extra close eye on him at crime scenes—but he hadn’t yet been able to do anything to the team in his past four months as Patrick Jane. “Everything was put into place this afternoon, sir, long before the vehicle had even been claimed from the parking lot.”

 

            “And all I have to do is hit the space bar?”  Red John asked.

 

            “Yes, sir.” Thomas responded and Red John glanced away from the spider to the slender, black laptop sitting atop Patrick’s musty cot. The piece of technology he had gotten from one of his accomplices within the CBI after Thomas had rigged the entire system with a remote detonator. At the time Thomas had explained the entire process to him, he had been halfway between Teresa’s front door and her bedroom to help the woman out of her bra weeks ago, Teresa had understood his need to take the “extremely” important phone call and he had spent the rest of the evening—after the phone call—eating her out in a blissful haze at the good news. “You can set off the device any time after this phone call, as it is now in place.”

 

            “Did you watch the vehicle as it left the parking lot this afternoon?” Red John hoped he had as he didn’t want to kill the only member of his inner circle left.

 

            “Personally, no.” Thomas answered and Red John pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers; he had killed Rebecca with poison after she had been taken into custody, Todd Johnson with fire after he had almost spoken with Patrick, and if Thomas had to die for cause a major flaw in the plan, Red John would kill the man by drowning him in the ocean. “I had a problem with our patient earlier.” Red John furrowed his brows. Around others, they had both decided to use the word _patient_ for Patrick Jane as it allowed for them to avoid suspicion around others. He hoped Patrick hadn’t started to seizure again as he didn’t want his body to be bruised black and blue from the man’s damned thrashing. “Don’t worry, sir. He grew a little aggressive this morning and threw himself—hard—into every surface within the room; his body is a little battered, but nothing rest won’t fix. The doctor,” which meant Thomas, “had to restrain him and put him back under. He’s now resting quite comfortably.”

 

Red John almost snorted. He doubted Thomas had given Patrick a comfortable sedation, especially as the accomplice had been given the order to do anything to keep Patrick under.

 

            “Because of this, I put Dawson on watch.”

 

Red John removed his fingers from the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes. Thomas hadn’t picked the _best_ accomplice to send into watching the CBI parking lot, but Red John understood that most his other accomplices had other various tasks to accomplish and Greg Dawson was the only one, who hadn’t yet been assigned a task to evaluate his usefulness.

 

            “Dawson called about fifteen minutes ago, sir. He said he noticed two individuals getting into the vehicle.” Red John waited for Thomas to continue. “One female, one male. The female was not a redhead.”

 

Relief flooded through his veins and his small smirk became a full-blown smile at the newfound information. His meticulously thought-out plan could continue and nothing, not even the feelings he held for Teresa, would stop him from destroying the Serious Crimes Unit now.

 

            “Did you instruct Dawson to follow the vehicle?”

 

            “I instructed him to do everything that you had instructed me to do, sir.”

 

            “And?” Red John asked, as he tapped his foot against the attic floor.

 

            “Dawson said they’re stopped at a gas station. The tire he managed to deflate will keep them there for another fifteen-or-so minutes.” Thomas answered and Red John continued to smile. He wouldn’t have to execute any of his accomplices for their failures and that made him happy. “Dawson isn’t sure how you want to go about this though, sir.”

 

_That_ made him lose his smile. “What do you mean Dawson _isn’t sure_ on how I want to go about this, Thomas?”  Red John scowled. If Dawson _or_ Thomas had changed the dynamics of his plan in _anyway_ , both of them would quickly find his knife buried within themselves at their utter stupidities. “Did I not tell you to follow the vehicle and _only_ deflate the tire? I never said that you should try and do anything else to them.”

 

            “You did tell us that, sir.” Thomas agreed. Red John opened his mouth to curse when Thomas continued to speak. “However, Dawson’s idea does have some merit to it.”

 

His temper flared. “And my idea doesn’t?” Thomas said nothing. “I think you all have forgotten that _I am in charge_ and that _you do nothing without my order_ , whether I am personally there or not.” He had built the persona Red John from the start, when the name had been nothing more than a footnote and he wouldn’t allow for anybody—especially, two of his associates—to smear his good name. “I will not have your stupidities ruining the highpoint of my career, Thomas. You swore your loyalties to me, after I saved you from your whore of a mother. Don’t make me regret my decision of picking you off the streets, Nathaniel.”

 

Thomas said nothing and Red John shook his head. Years ago, Nathaniel Thomas had crossed his path as a young teenager, who had felt cheated by the hand of cards that life had dealt him; he had no father, his mother opened her legs for every man, woman and child, who would help further her cocaine addiction and Thomas—an innocent, on the verge of manhood—had fled from a place filled with unspeakable tortures.

 

Red John, feeling almost sympathetic toward the youth’s plight after he had found the teen trying to pilfer one of his platinum kitchen knives, had taken Thomas off the streets and away from disorganized crime to give the boy more than his cocaine snorting, whore of a mother had ever given him—excluding giving birth to him and breastfeeding him with those rather large tits of hers that had looked good on the floor, covered in her own blood.

 

He had provided Thomas with asylum from the criminal justice system, a “free” education to one of the best colleges in the United States, a place to live, an abundance of warm food to eat, a soft bed to sleep in at night and a father-figure to learn from, all in exchange for the boy’s complete loyalty and trust.

 

At the age of nineteen, Thomas had decided—with a little push in the right direction, of course—upon obtaining a degree in Criminal Justice and until one month before the boy’s graduation at the age of twenty-two; Thomas had never realized he was Red John.

 

It was only after Thomas had chosen his final research paper on Red John in one of his upper-level Criminology classes that he had decided to let Thomas know who he truly was and Thomas—still innocent and still very much curious—had watched his first murder with a gaping jaw.

 

            _“You’re Red John?”_ Thomas had asked in awe as the bloody smiley face had slowly started to form from Red John’s gloved fingertips. He—mask and all— had merely nodded and had prepared himself to kill Thomas for falling back on his promise for _complete loyalty and trust_.

 

But instead of running, Thomas had asked him, _“Why?”_

And over a cup of warm tea, free from all the blood and bodily fluids that a kill usually brought, Red John had told him the story of a little boy, who had wished for so much more than the daily beatings from his father and ridicule from people, who had known absolutely nothing about him. He had told about the little boy’s mother, who had ended her life in front of her only son, who had also been given the gift of a ruby smile to remember her by before her bloody death.

 

He had also told about the little boy’s father, who had become so overwhelmed with his grief and sadness that the little boy feared coming out of his closet-sized bedroom in case his father beat him within an inch of his life like he had done many times before.

 

Red John scowled. Patrick Jane often reminded him of his father, especially after the man had lost his wife and child: grief-stricken, unstable, depressed and consumed with rage. Only Patrick had been able to channel his anger into something other than a helpless child, who had done nothing wrong.

 

            _“You killed your mother.”_ His father had spat. His breath, Red John remembered with a shiver, reeked of alcohol and onions as the man leaned over him with his teeth barred. _“You stood there and watched her die with a sick little smile on your face, you twisted fuck.”_

 

He had tried to tell his father that his mother had dragged him into the bathroom, had tried to tell him that she had made him watch the last moments of her life fade from her eyes—her bare chest had risen and fallen, along with the scarlet waves that sloshed around her—but his father had never listened to him and he had stopped trying as the leather belt had found every inch of his body and the neighbors simply turned off their lights, because _“nobody wants to involve themselves in our family matters, boy. They know you deserve this too.”_

            “You’re right, sir.” Thomas said, after a long period of silence. Red John refocused his attention from his thoughts to Thomas’s voice. “We shouldn’t have gotten ahead of ourselves, sir. I’m sorry. Please forgive me?”

 

            “You’re forgiven.” Red John replied. In his ear, he heard Thomas exhale sharply and his grimace became a smirk again. Thomas, much like all of his accomplices, had learned early on that crossing him lead to death and if anyone didn’t execute each order perfectly; Red John had no qualms in killing to make examples out of each accomplice. “As you’ve put me in a charitable mood, tell me what you found about Greg Dawson’s plan that makes it merit worthy?” Thomas was smart; he knew what merit worthy was and what merit worthy wasn’t. Red John trusted his judgment to an extent and if the man felt the need to say something—especially, at the risk of his own life—the idea that Dawson had presented to him must have been pretty damn good.

 

            “If you set the detonator off at the right moment, sir, Dawson pointed out that you have the possibility of a few things happening.” Thomas stated and Red John nodded, although he knew the man couldn’t see the action. “You could kill both individuals in the vehicle…”

 

            “This is what I obviously want.” Red John interrupted, hastily. “What good are they to me if they are alive, Thomas?”

 

            “I know this, sir. However, you also risk the chance of killing only one or killing neither, their injuries being the worst of all the damage.” Red John rolled his eyes again. He knew that. He had spent weeks planning out every little detail—researching every possible idea to maximizing damage, calculating every possible outcome and thinking about which outcome, out of the ones he had thought of, would hit the Serious Crimes Unit the hardest—and at the end of all that, he still knew his plan could fail but he had think that it wouldn’t. Failure didn’t set right with him; a serial killer, who had spent months doing the unthinkable to teach others a lesson. “Dawson thought about taking a shot to maximize the chances of death or to at least, maximize the amount of injury involved.”

 

Red John turned away from the laptop and ran his unoccupied hand through his hair in frustration. Dawson’s idea _did_ hold merit, a lot actually. If the sharp-shooting accomplice shot someone in the vehicle dead and the other person survived the initial blast, the psychological effects (plus whatever injury was obtained) would do more than enough harm to everybody, who stood in the path of hidden destruction.

 

_Besides_ , Red John thought, _death is too good for them all._

            “I can tell him no, sir.” Thomas continued. “Merit or not, this is your operation and…”

 

            “Tell him yes.” Red John decided. “But he should _only_ shoot the female, if he has a clear shot. Leave the male for me.” He didn’t wait for Thomas to reply as he ended the call, turned on the ball of his feet and grabbed the laptop from atop Patrick’s cot.

 

If he was going to blow somebody up using his laptop, he wanted others around to ensure the blame would be well placed and what a better place for everything to happen than within Teresa Lisbon’s cozy little office?

 

With a smile and a light skip in his step, Red John made his way to Teresa’s office as he hummed Bach’s _Prelude in C_ under his breath.

 

Old habits, after all, did die hard. 

* * *

 

Lisbon frowned as she scanned her latest email from Wainwright, who had felt the need to hold another budget meeting on top of her already full schedule for the week. She had three cases to testify in, another informal meeting with Susan Darcy to discuss Red John who had slipped through their fingers again after another one of Jane’s plans had gone awry and a case involving a local college campus, where nobody wanted to cooperate with them at all.

 

She reached for her lukewarm mug of coffee. If she was going to survive another two-hour drive to Cavalry College with a broken AC in the sweltering heat to question the faculty again; the more caffeine she had in her system, the better she was prepared for another day of getting nothing from anybody and working another case without Jane. 

 

_Jane_ , she thought with a frown.

 

The man had been even more of a recluse than usual lately, spending all of his time holed up in his attic which reminded her of his behavior after Kristina Frye had been kidnapped by Red John years ago; bitter, sad, vengeful and closed off from them all. Back then, Lisbon had tried to convince him that they—the unit—were his family and he had done nothing but toss her words away, obtain an illegal firearm and keep secrets from her.

 

After Madeleine Hightower had been framed for murder and Jane had failed in getting Danny Culpepper to steal the list of suspects in Todd Johnson’s death from J.J. LaRoche, Jane had turned to her from his world of reclusiveness and secret-keeping to trust her with his plans. Lisbon had liked being in the loop for once and she didn’t want their relationship to revert back to before their nights together, where Jane would keep everything from her until it blew up in both of their faces.

 

Lisbon knew Red John was the only person who could throw Jane off his game. Every Red John case proved that undeniable fact: from the Plaskett case, where Jane had rushed into a situation without taking the proper precautions to Rosalind Harker’s emergence into Witness Protection, which could have been prevented if Jane had just left the poor woman alone. It was why their last case had unnerved him even more than usual; the death of mother and daughter had sent Jane back into his world of solitude and she was worried about him.

 

Jane had said he was fine over and over again, but he knew how to lie to her and because of that, she couldn’t take his words at face value anymore.

 

            “Lisbon?” Jane’s voice interrupted her from her musing and she glanced up from her computer to stare at him, as she sat her coffee mug back down. His jaw line, she noticed, was unshaven and covered in the beginning traces of peach fuzz and his hair remained unruly; the blonde locks curling wildly atop his head. Jane gave her the impression of a man about to drop from exhaustion with his bloodshot eyes and she quickly motioned for him to sit down on her couch. “Am I interrupting anything?

 

Lisbon shook her head. “Reading an email from Wainwright. I believe I can multitask though.” She kept her eyes on him. Jane settled himself on the white couch he had bought her while she noticed the laptop in his hands. “Did you need something, Jane?” He balanced the laptop on top of his uncrossed legs and opened the top of the machine before it started to hum. Lisbon wondered what he was doing as Jane plus technology had never mixed well together and if he had stolen the laptop from Van Pelt, she didn’t want to hear about it later.

 

            “Besides you?” Jane responded with a playful smile on his lips and she fixed him with a stare. They were at work and _that_ type of conduct between anybody—employee or not—was strictly against the rules, which Jane very well knew. “Not really. I borrowed the laptop in hopes of helping you do paperwork, as I feel I should be doing something around here.” She watched him frown, his eyes focused on the illuminated laptop screen. “But I can’t seem to work the space bar.” She sighed. Only Jane could manage to stick a key on a laptop that he didn’t even own. “Anyway,” he continued, “tell me about your latest case. Rigsby said something about a college campus parking lot feud, just without the mud and more blood?” Lisbon rolled her eyes at his choice of words.

 

“Calvary College is a little rural college, located two-hours away from here. The college has two parking garages: one for students and one for staff. Assistant Professor Zoe Henderson drove into work on Monday and found the body of Andrea Lee, the head of the anthropology department, in her parking spot.” Lisbon explained.

 

“I’m guessing she didn’t just walk there, did she?”

 

“Considering she’s missing the lower half of her body, no.” Lisbon responded, dryly. She watched Jane hit his hand against the keyboard before she spoke again. “The local PD can’t handle a case of this magnitude, which is why we were called in.”

 

            “It can’t be that big of a case.” Jane stated. “She’s only missing her lower half.”

 

            “It’s not.” Lisbon answered. The president of the college, Dr. John Marks—a squirrely fellow with wide, yellow eyes and a bushy mustache—had connections with the town’s governor, who was also apparently his wife. “The president has connections within the government and doesn’t trust the local PD to conduct the investigation.”

 

            “You sound frustrated.”

 

            “I _am_ frustrated.” Lisbon replied; the entire case was giving her a migraine. “The president wanted us there, but he refuses to give us anything to work with. Students refuse to talk and we’re going back up to question the staff later today, just to see if we can’t find out anything more about Dr. Lee.”  

 

            “Ah.” Jane stated and Lisbon stared at him. While he had been holed up in his attic, doing God only knew what; the world hadn’t stopped spinning and the murderers of California hadn’t suddenly stopped killing others in his absence. Their caseload had increased to a staggering amount, which had prompted the continuous presence of Luther Wainwright in her office to see why they were behind.

 

Of course, it didn’t take a special-agent-in-charge to tell them all what they already knew.

 

The Serious Crimes Unit, whether she wanted to accept it or not, needed Patrick Jane’s help.

 

            “Well, Lisbon.” Jane said to her. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You are smart after all.”

 

She continued to stare at him.

 

Due to his lack of presence, their closed case ratio had plummeted and despite the numbers within her daily meetings with Wainwright, Lisbon had thought her team _could_ solve cases without Jane.

 

But Wainwright had disagreed with her and that had been a week ago.

 

In anger, Lisbon stood from her desk and joined him on the couch. She hit the space bar with her hand, irritated that the man had been more interested in his _paperwork_ than a case that just screamed _Jane_. “There.” Lisbon hit it again. “Now, it works.” Jane blinked in surprise. “Maybe you’ll help me now, instead of worrying about your paperwork.” She almost did a double take at her words. Had she really said that to him?

 

Jane nodded with a large smile across his face and she rolled her eyes at his behavior. It was just a space bar, not as if he had just won a million dollars or something like that.

 

            “Patrick doing paperwork?” Lisbon heard Susan Darcy ask. She glanced away from Jane to stare up at the blonde FBI Agent, who stood in the doorway to her office.

 

            “I try the best I can, Susan.” Jane replied. “I’ve learned where to sign my name. Maybe later Lisbon can teach me how to forge her signature.”

 

Darcy ignored Jane’s comment, as did she. “I hope you don’t mind me coming over unannounced. Over the phone, you said you had a busy week and I thought we could get this meeting out of the way.” Darcy glanced at them both; Lisbon pulled her hand away from Jane’s laptop. “Unless you both are busy, of course.” Lisbon shook her head and moved from the couch to sit back behind her desk.

 

            “We can do the meeting now, Agent Darcy.” Lisbon replied. “I was just helping Jane out.”

 

            “She was.” Jane said still with his huge grin. “My space bar was stuck and she helped me free it. Agent Lisbon is a life saver.” She threw him a glare to shut him up.

 

            “As you both know, Red John has gotten away once again.” Darcy said after she had cleared her throat. Lisbon pulled her eyes from Jane to Darcy. “Agent Wainwright said Red John’s latest victim was one of yours?”

 

            “She worked with us in conjuncture with the Elizabeth Shannon case.” Lisbon clarified.

 

A brief frown crossed Darcy’s lips. “The girl who was found in the basement of her parent’s home?” Lisbon nodded. “Poor girl.” A week after Kayla had been killed, Lancaster had gone hard after the Shannon family who eventually cracked under pressure and told him that they had kept their little girl in a cage. “Either way, I’m sorry for the CBI’s loss.”

 

            “Thank you, Agent Darcy.”

 

            “I’ll be honest with you, Agent Lisbon.” Darcy spoke. “The FBI and I are baffled as to why Red John would feel the need to stray from his pattern to kill two instead of one.”

 

            “Does a serial killer need a reason to deviate from their pattern, Susan?” Jane asked, coolly. “Red John does whatever he wants, because he can.”

 

Lisbon watched Darcy spare Jane a glance. “Thank you for your input, Patrick. I’ll be sure and tell our FBI profiler that tidbit of information.”

 

            “The next tidbit will cost you.” Jane replied and Lisbon glared again. “Red John killed Kayla and Madison Rivet to send a message, Susan. He probably doesn’t like the fact that my spare time isn’t spent tracking him down anymore.”

 

            “You think Red John cares about your personal life, Patrick?” Lisbon almost groaned at her question. Jane had passed her lie detector test; he wasn’t Red John, he was just a man who was obsessed with the serial killer.

 

            “I know he does.” Jane said. Darcy opened her mouth, when Jane continued. “Red John has moles everywhere; I doubt they’re here just to undermine the investigation.”

 

            “Red John had a mole in the FBI too.” Darcy reminded them. “While it might have seemed that O’Laughlin was spending most of his time here, Craig O’Laughlin’s primary place of employment _was_ the FBI.”

 

            “I don’t forget that O’Laughlin was one of yours, Susan.” Jane answered. Darcy blinked. “It’s obvious, Agent. You showed up months after O’Laughlin had been murdered and you hold yourself as a woman who has lost someone dear; Craig O’Laughlin, perhaps?”

 

Susan bristled in anger. “What exactly are you implying, Patrick?”

 

            “I’m implying, Susan,” Jane started, his tone overly sweet, “that you and Craig O’Laughlin were engaged sexually, outside of work.”

 

            “Jane!” Lisbon exclaimed, horrified at Jane’s words toward the FBI agent.

 

            “Did it hurt knowing that Craig had two others more important than you in his life, Susan?” Jane continued. “His life belonged to Red John. His heart belonged to Grace.” Jane’s smile grew. “Tell me, Susan. What part of him belonged to you?”

 

            “You’re way out of line, Mr. Jane!” Darcy shouted, as she stood from the chair that she had claimed with her fists clenched. “You have absolutely nothing to base these accusations on and I would appreciate it, Mr. Jane, if you just kept your mouth shut on things that don’t concern you.”

 

            “Everything involving Red John concerns me, Susan.” Jane stated. “From who he is to the moles he employees and the females that his moles bed.”

 

Lisbon opened her mouth to intervene when her cell phone shrilled into the office. With an apologetic smile, she excused herself from the room and answered her cell phone in the empty hallway.

 

            “Teresa Lisbon?” A voice she didn’t know greeted into her ear.

 

            “Yes?” Lisbon answered.

 

            “This is Placerville General Hospital.” The voice responded again and Lisbon raised her eyebrow in confusion. Placerville, California was thirty-nine miles away and she didn’t know anybody from that particular county. “Do you know a Kimball Cho?”

 

            “Yes, he’s one of my agents.” Lisbon informed the unknown speaker. Cho had asked to leave work a little earlier than usual, due to a personal situation that he had to deal with. “Is something wrong?” A call from _any_ hospital, she had quickly learned, never meant anything good. The silence ticked on and finally, after what had felt like forever, she made her voice work again. “Hello?”

 

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.

 

_Cho’s probably fine_ , she tried to tell herself, _there’s been a..._

 

            “There’s been an incident, ma’am.” The voice interrupted her thoughts and Lisbon’s heart shot into her stomach. “We don’t know all of the details yet, but there’s been one confirmed death and…”

 

She didn’t hear anything else.

 

Her cell phone slipped from her grasp and the object clattered to the floor.

 

_One confirmed death_ , keep going through her mind as she slid her back against her office window, _one confirmed death. Cho’s dead?_

She barely heard her office door open or feel the pair of arms that had wrapped around her, until Jane’s voice was in her ear.

 

            “What’s wrong, Teresa?”

 

            “Cho.” She whispered. “Cho’s dead.”

 

And with that, the entire world fell apart before her eyes—seam by seam—until there was nothing left to grasp at, except for Jane.


	12. Chapter 12

**12—**

Lisbon stared intently at the doorway to the private waiting room that they had been ushered into upon their arrival at Placerville General Hospital. Jane held her hand in his own, as they both waited for any news on Cho’s condition. Van Pelt and Rigsby remained a few seats down from them while the only sound within the room came from the hum of the mounted television.

 

After she had gotten the phone call and she had slid down onto the floor, Jane had grabbed the phone from the floor and had learned from whoever had been on the phone that Cho had been rushed to Placerville General Hospital in critical condition after a massive explosion at the local gas station and that had been hours ago.

 

The hallway outside the waiting room was silent, except for the random voices every so often and Lisbon shifted within her uncomfortable leather seat.

 

_How much longer will we be sitting here?_ She wondered as she felt Jane’s hand squeeze her own and she turned to stare at him.

 

Jane wore a frown; concern written across his face with his bluish-green eyes focused on hers.

 

            “He’ll be fine, Teresa.” Jane told her in a whisper. “Cho’s strong. He’s not going to let a little explosion stop him, my dear.” Jane’s constant reassurances had done nothing to relieve the guilt that lined her stomach. If she had refused Cho’s request to leave early, none of them would have been sitting in the hospital waiting room and Cho wouldn’t be on an operating table.

 

On the ride over, Lisbon had used one of her hands to wrap around Jane’s hand and the other to clench at her cross necklace. Jane hadn’t said anything about her prayer and she hadn’t said anything when he had broken several speed limits just to get to the hospital; both of them so caught up in their own worlds at the news one phone call had brought that the last things on their minds, she thought, had probably been logic and reason.

 

Lisbon tore her eyes and hand away from Jane, before she put her head in both of her hands. Could they never get a break? First it had been Jane with Red John and next it was Cho with an explosive. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

 

_If Cho dies,_ she thought, _it’ll be my fault._

 

The thought of her second-in-command dying was too much to bear, even for her. 

 

She felt Jane place his hand on her back, before he started to rub circles between her shoulder blades, while they continued to wait for any news—good or bad, life or death and for once, Lisbon didn’t care that she and Jane were no longer tiptoeing the professional-personal boundary that she had set up for them both to follow, as his touch kept her from losing it completely and she had to remain strong for them all.

* * *

            “Teresa?” Teresa heard the soft voice of Jane’s in her ear. “Come on, you need to wake up.” She felt his fingers dance across her face and she opened her eyes, only to be greeted by the blinding light of wherever she was. She groaned and closed her eyes ago, drawing warmth from Jane’s shoulder that she rested her head on. “The doctor wants to speak with you, Teresa. Don’t keep the good man waiting.”

 

_The doctor?_ She almost asked him, out of a sleep-induced confusion. _Why would I need a…?_

 

It then all came back to her—the phone call, Jane’s hold on her, the hospital and Cho—and with a start, she brought her head from Jane’s shoulder and became fully aware of her surroundings.

 

The sterile smell of the waiting room greeted her alongside the scent of Jane, before she felt the stare of an additional person in the room with them. Quickly, she glanced at the person: comfortable black shoes, tan pants, a white coat, tawny skin and dark hair. Lisbon blinked. Was the person before her Cho’s doctor?

 

            “Agent Lisbon?” The male spoke and Lisbon kept her attention on him. “I’m Dr. Max Hough. I was the surgeon in charge of Agent Cho’s surgery.” Lisbon scanned his face for any sign of good or bad news, but all she found was a tight smile and cold eyes. Her hand found Jane’s again for comfort.

 

            “How is he doing?” Lisbon questioned. Dr. Hough said nothing for a moment and she feared that something had gone wrong in surgery or Cho had passed away. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as she tried to think positively; _the lack of news doesn’t mean bad news, bad news isn’t always accurate and good news, even with what we know, is always possible._

 

            “Can I speak with you in private, Agent Lisbon?” Dr. Hough asked and Lisbon nodded. She stood from her seat and followed Dr. Hough before anyone could stop her. Out in the quiet, brightly lit hallway, Dr. Hough shut the waiting room door behind him before he turned back to her.

 

The expression on his face hadn’t changed much and Lisbon started to worry again. If nothing bad had happened, she wondered, why did he want to speak in private?

 

            “Agent Cho made it through the surgery, Agent.” Dr. Hough informed her and her stomach did a flip in joy. “He’s alive and in the ICU.” Lisbon stared at the doctor as she brought her arms against her chest. Dr. Hough left her with more “if” or “what” questions than anything else. She opened her mouth to reply when he continued to speak. “He’s not completely in the clear yet, which is why we have him in the ICU. I want to monitor him for a few days, as his vitals keep dropping dangerously low.”

 

She nodded again and closed her mouth. Lisbon appreciated his honesty and the fact that he wasn’t sugar-coating everything for her.

 

            “He has an eighty-five percent chance of pulling through, which will increase as the night goes along.” Dr. Hough stated. “However, I am worried about what the future may hold for Agent Cho.”

 

            “Why is that?” Lisbon forced herself to ask him.

 

            “How much have you been informed about the events at the gas station, Agent Lisbon?”

 

            “I know a bomb went off and my agent was there.” Lisbon answered. She hadn’t been able to get ahold of the officer-in-charge for Placerville to ask him about it, as cell phones weren’t allowed in the hospital. “Nobody else has really told us anything else though.” Dr. Hough nodded as he crossed his own arms against his chest.

 

            “I’ll be honest with you, Agent. If Agent Cho hadn’t been leaning toward the passenger seat when the bomb had exploded, you and I would be having a completely different conversation than the one we are having now.” Lisbon silently thanked God for saving Cho’s life, but she was still confused at his action. In the CBI-issued SUV—Cho’s actual vehicle had been in the shop; his break line had been severed by one of the criminal’s days ago—they tended to keep nothing of actual use in the glove compartments, aside from the random map.  “From what I understood, Agent Cho wasn’t alone in the car. He had someone with him, but you’ll have to speak with either Officer Joel or the EMTs.

            “If there was somebody else in the vehicle though, I will ask that you and your colleagues refrain from telling Agent Cho more than he needs to know, Agent Lisbon.” Dr. Hough told her. “The mind is a dangerous place to play around in or with.” She nodded again.

 

            “I understand.” She hadn’t followed the orders from when Jane had been diagnosed with amnesia and he had come back to her with no everlasting effects from her reintroducing Red John to him. Lisbon briefly wondered if doctors just gave the advice they did to annoy friends and family of the patients, who could handle the news perfectly.

 

            “I’m being serious, Agent Lisbon.” Dr. Hough replied, sternly. “Agent Cho doesn’t need any more extra stress right now, considering the psychological aspects are only the beginning of what he will be facing.”

 

Lisbon furrowed her brows. “What?” The psychological aspects were a given, as she had dealt with her own mini-psychological crisis after she had been strapped to a bomb last year. Cho was strong, but nobody could wave away being on the threshold of death _that_ easily.

 

            “The explosion did great damage on his body, Agent.” Dr. Hough answered. “It did even more damage to his spinal cord.” Lisbon felt sick to her stomach again, as she removed her hands from her chest and pressed them against her stomach. She knew enough about the anatomy of a human body to know that any injury suffered to the spinal cord was not a good one. “I can’t tell you much function he’ll have over his body until after we run some tests. We should know in a few days though.”

 

            “What happens if he’s…?” Lisbon couldn’t finish her sentence. The thought of Cho not being able to walk—let alone _move_ —because of her made her ill with guilt. How could she face her team— _or Jane_?—with that knowledge?

 

            “One day at a time, Agent, is all I can say.” Dr. Hough said as he turned away from her and opened the door to the waiting room. “One day at a time.” She nodded numbly before she muttered a soft _thank you_ to him and stepped back into the waiting room, where she was met with Jane’s arms.

 

            “Are you okay?” Jane asked her, softly.

 

_No_ , she thought, _I’m not okay. I’m so far from being okay right now, it’s not even funny._

 

Instead of answering him, in fear of losing her self-control, she pushed him away from her hands and turned to address the rest of her unit with a deep breath. She felt Jane’s eyes on her back and ignoring the fact that Jane needed the comfort too, she focused her attention on Van Pelt and Rigsby, who both stood inches from her. Rigsby had his hand against Van Pelt’s upper arm as they both stared at her, concern written across their faces.

 

            “Is he okay, boss?” Rigsby and Van Pelt asked at the same time. Lisbon stared at them both, a frown across her features, before she told them everything that Dr. Hough had told her.

 

            “He’ll be okay, Teresa.” Jane told her, after she had finished speaking and the room had fallen silent again. “You’ll see, I promise.” She really hoped he was right—for Cho’s sake and her own.

* * *

             “I thought about bringing you flowers, but from the looks of it,” Lisbon told Cho as she slid into the seat by his hospital bedside, days later, “you have more than enough to last you.” She tried to ignore the wires and bandages that decorated every inch of his body by glancing around the room at the flowers and the balloons, while the man stared at her with his head leaned back on one of the hospital provided pillows. “How are you feeling?”

 

            “Like I was blown up and I can’t walk.” Cho told her and Lisbon shook her head. Rigsby had told her yesterday that Cho was acting as if none of this was bothering him, which had immediately worried her. “Van Pelt’s the one who sent the flowers, by the way. I told her I was allergic; she doesn’t listen.”

 

Lisbon chuckled at that. She had known the Junior Agent was sending him flowers, as she had caught Van Pelt days ago purchasing them from her work computer. “Van Pelt means well.”

 

            “By giving me asthma, sure.”

 

            “I’ll tell her to stop sending the flowers, but she might start sending balloons.” Cho grimaced at one of the _get well_ balloons, which lingered within his hospital room. “Or worse.” Lisbon briefly imagined a swarm of stuffed animals around Cho and she stifled her laugh, as she doubted he would appreciate the joke. “The doctor said you’re doing well.” Dr. Hough had stopped her in the hallway to remind her of the rules: _“You shouldn’t ask him about his accident and you shouldn’t tell him anything if he asks”_ and to tell her that Cho—aside from the fact that the hospital tests had concluded that he was a paraplegic, which had been the one piece of information she _didn’t_ want to hear—was doing well.

 

            “Peeing in a bag is not what I call well.” Lisbon said nothing to Cho’s response. Hospitals had always reminded her of her childhood and of the times her father had beaten her brothers unconscious, but the fact that she and Cho couldn’t actively discuss what had happened to him put her even more on edge within the single, one window room. Cho had yet to ask them anything about the incident and while she knew more than enough to fill in the blanks for him, she had to keep them both away from the reason he had no control over anything below the waist for his own safety. “If Van Pelt wants to send something, make it food. Hospital food tastes like crap.”

 

            “If you think the hospital food tastes like crap, you should try the hospital coffee.” Lisbon replied. “It’s even worse than the tasteless Jell-O they serve you.”

 

            “I’ll pass.” Cho answered.

 

            “Good decision.” Lisbon replied with a laugh. Cho closed his eyes for a moment and she wondered if she should get a nurse, when he opened his eyes again and she took a deep breath. “I wish I was just here for a social call, Kimball.”

 

Cho glanced at her, a small smirk on his lips. “Not even seventy-two hours and I’m being handed a pink slip.” Lisbon shook her head. “You mean Agent Wainwright hasn’t approached you about me yet?”

 

            “He has.” Lisbon admitted. Cho’s job within the Serious Crimes Unit had been a major disagreement between herself and Wainwright, who had disagreed with the suggestion that Cho should remain on her unit. The Special-Agent-in-Charge had thrown out several issues with allowing Cho to work with the unit after his accident; Lisbon had finally managed to make him reconsidering the rash decision, citing the fact that whether Cho could walk or not—he was still a model agent. “You’re not being fired.” Cho blinked in response. “You’re a good agent, Cho and the CBI knows it.” He said nothing in response. “Wainwright knows it, as do I.”

 

            “I can’t chase after criminals in a wheelchair.”

 

            “I know.” Lisbon responded. “But you can do paperwork, unless you can’t move your hands either.” Lisbon mimicked the motion of signing paperwork.

 

Cho met her gaze. “Thank you, boss, but no thank you.” Lisbon opened her mouth to argue with him; she didn’t want to lose one of her best agents, paralyzed for life or not. “You need four capable agents to arrest criminals and babysit Jane, Lisbon. You don’t need one in a wheelchair.” Cho seemed at peace with his decision, but that didn’t mean she believed him.

 

            “If you change your mind…” Lisbon started, a few moments later.

 

            “I won’t.” Cho replied. “But if I change my mind, I’ll give you a call.” Both of them shared a small smile and Lisbon knew nothing would be the same after this. The Serious Crimes Unit, while still filled with Jane, Van Pelt and Rigsby, wouldn’t be the same without Cho. “How angry is the CBI about the vehicle damages?” Lisbon hid her surprise. She hadn’t thought Cho knew or remembered that much from the accident, but she felt the need to answer him anyway.

 

            “They aren’t angry; they’re more worried about you.” Lisbon answered. “Although, last I heard: Bertram wanted to dock the pay from Jane’s paycheck.” Cho seemed less uncomfortable with the topic—although, it was hard to tell as he liked to be stoic—which made Lisbon want to steer away from the darker topics of work and his injury.

 

            “Better his than mine; do you know how much insurance is going to charge me for this?” Cho asked her and Lisbon chuckled again. “While on the subject of Jane though, he came to visit me yesterday.” Lisbon nodded; Jane had briefly dropped by her office to say that he was going to see Cho. “He said you blamed yourself for my…” Cho trailed off and under her breath, Lisbon cursed Jane out. Those words had been said to him under the strictest of confidences. “This isn’t your fault, but I want you to find the bastard that did this to me.”

 

            “We will.” Lisbon told him. The Placerville PD had refused to share the case with the CBI, but that had never stopped them from working a case before. She kept her eyes focused on Cho, who seemed as if he had something he wanted to say and she waited patiently for him to talk again.

 

            “I don’t remember much about what got me here. The doctor said it’s a form of amnesia, but I remember that Summer was in the vehicle with me.” Cho stated and Lisbon kept quiet. “I know CI’s and CBI agents aren’t supposed to date, but we are.”

 

            “It’s fine.” Cho was right though; she had jumped on Van Pelt and Rigsby for their relationship, but under the different circumstance, she knew she couldn’t distress him any further than he already was.

 

            “Everybody has been in here to visit: you, Rigsby, Wainwright, Bertram, Darcy, Van Pelt and even Jane.” Cho continued. Lisbon knew what his question was going to be, even before it formed on his lips and she forced herself to continue glancing at him. “Why hasn’t Summer?”

 

Lisbon tried to shrug off his question. “I don’t know. We haven’t seen her lately.” Of course, that was a lie.

 

Summer Edgecombe had been the only casualty and her death had been moments prior to the bomb destroying both of their lives via a sniper weapon. Cho, whether he would believe it later or not, had been the lucky one as Summer’s body was still being found days later at the crime scene.

 

If Cho knew she was lying, he never called her out on it.

 

But he did ask her to leave and she left him without a single word.

* * *

Naked and under the warm comforter in Teresa’s dark bedroom, Red John felt Teresa’s head on his chest. The slender brunette had clung to him from the moment her feet had crossed the threshold into her bedroom, as Teresa had been upset from her earlier visit with Cho. After almost thirty minutes of listening to the woman try to calm herself down, Red John had brought her a glass of milk laced with a sleeping pill and she had fallen asleep shortly afterwards.

 

He didn’t enjoy drugging her as the last thing he wanted was her body to become addicted to the drugs he used, but he could only take so much of her blabbering nonsense before he grew agitated.

 

Although Teresa was hurting and saddened by what she couldn’t fix, it didn’t change the fact that he was beyond happy with the destruction that his plans and accomplices had accomplished. Red John knew that a bomb would change things, but he had never anticipated on the amount of things that _one_ car bomb would have brought about.

 

Cho had the quit the CBI, which put the Serious Crimes Unit down a leader. Of course, Teresa was the _official_ leader—the _Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon_ on her door said as much—but Red John had learned from watching them all that Cho was the most logical person, aside from Teresa, on the unit. Without the second-in-command, Red John knew, the entire unit would slowly fall apart as Teresa’s head wasn’t in her work at the moment and nobody else on the unit had the abilities to lead the team from the metaphorical ashes.

 

Aside from the professional destruction though, the bomb had practically made Cho useless; the man couldn’t move, let alone, control his bladder without the use of some _help_. Red John wondered if suicide had crossed the stoic agent’s mind without being promoted. He had subtly slipped the idea to Cho in his hospital room on his first visit and if Cho chose to end his life, his suicide would do so much more to the team that if the bomb had just killed him.

 

Teresa had also told him earlier that Cho had asked about his girlfriend, Summer and it taken almost every dark memory from his childhood to suppress the smile her words had brought him. Dawson’s idea to shoot Summer dead had been a brilliant one as Cho would forever have the blood of his tramp on his hands, before she had been blown into tiny pieces and scattered all over the property of the gas station. Red John envied the nurse or doctor, who would eventually inform Cho that Summer had died, because they would see the reaction that Red John wanted to see from every member of the unit: fear, defeat or sorrow.

 

In the darkness, Red John continued to smile. He had ruined Cho’s life, killed his little blonde tramp and in his opinions, things kept getting better and better.

 

Teresa blamed herself for the state Cho was in, which amused him highly. Indirectly, she had been the one to detonate the bomb—a last minute change to the plan that he had thought of, as he had stepped into her office—and what had made iteven better was that Darcy had seen it happen. When Patrick got caught for being Red John, Teresa would go down with him as an accomplice and while that was a true pity, he had uses for Teresa long after her job abandoned her and Patrick was long gone.

 

Red John’s smile became a grimace. He almost hated that he wouldn’t be around to watch Teresa fall apart after she realized that the man she had fallen in love with was Red John, the serial killer that they been hunting for years, but he knew his time as Patrick was coming to an end.

 

The Placerville Police Department would eventually find the owner of the sniper gun used to kill Summer and when they found the recently deceased Greg Dawson—a redsmiley shimmering above his massacred body—someone would make the connection that the shooting and the bomb were related to Red John. The FBI would probably be called in and Darcy would place a high amount of suspicion on him again and if that happened, he would never be able to swap back with Patrick.

 

Besides Cho and Teresa, Red John refocused his thoughts again; Rigsby and Grace had taken the _loss_ pretty hard as well. Rigsby had lost his work partner and best friend, which kept the man continuously distracted at work out of worry while Grace had spent the last few days absolutely mortified and on the verge of tears.

 

Even in her teary state of panic, the redheaded agent had spent countless hours over the past two days trying to figure out who had been behind the bomb. Red John doubted that she would find anything as she had absolutely nothing to work with, but he had quickly learned that underestimating the work of anybody (especially, the work of a redheaded slut) was a bad idea; the Serious Crimes Unit had, after all, gotten Jared Renfrew out of jail with nothing more than a silly _party trick_.

 

Absentmindedly, he petted Teresa’s hair with his hand; the woman, apparently so far gone, did not stir at his touch and he continued to smile. 

 

Either way, if he wanted to slip away unscathed and get back into his own body, Red John knew that he had to mess with that slutty little head of hers.

 

_And what a better way to mess with a slut_ , he thought with a smirk, _than to give them what they truly wanted: a good pounding without consent?_


	13. Chapter 13

**13—**

****

Red John studied Grace from behind his desk; her body language screamed worry from the way her posture had slumped over the course of twelve hours to how her long red hair, even in the ghastly night lighting of the Serious Crimes bullpen, gave off the appearance of being rather lank.

 

He doubted that she could feel his consistent stare as her fingers tapped against her computer keyboard. Except for a few bathroom breaks from the excessive amounts of coffee or the other beverages that she had consumed throughout the day and the fifteen minute lunch break that Rigsby had forced her to take, Grace had been behind her desk all day with the intentions of trying to figure out the origin of the bomb.

 

Even in her worried and fatigued state though, he could tell that the young agent was starting to feel ill also.

 

Grace had her jacket bundled tightly together, the dark fabric strained against her shoulders as her body shivered in the heat. He had watched her head start to slowly slump toward the surface of her desk while the sounds of her fingers typing against the keyboard diminished greatly and he merely smiled from behind one of Patrick’s books.

 

Grace’s _illness_ wasn’t because she hadn’t been getting enough sleep or because she stressed to the point of exhaustion and it certainly wasn’t because of the lack of food within her stomach.

 

_No_ , he thought with a smile, _it’s because of me._

After Teresa and Rigsby had left for the night, both of them unsuccessful in getting Grace to leave for the night and leave her research for the morning, he had kindly offered his assistances to fetch her cups of coffee or cups of anything else that she wanted to drink while she was working. Naïve little Grace had appreciated his _thoughtfulness_ and in the empty kitchenette, he had used his _thoughtfulness_ to top each one of her drinks off with small amounts of liquidized GHB that he had smuggled past the CBI security guards in a small clear vial.

 

On their own, the small amounts of the GHB that he had poured into her drinks wouldn’t do much of anything. However, the amount of drinks that she had consumed and the overall amount of GHB within each cupful had ultimately added up to Grace starting to feel the effects of the drug over her body.

 

Her movements had grown sluggish and every so often, he noticed that her hands would leave the keyboard and touch against something on her person; he had automatically assumed it was the stomach, because GHB in large doses made the individual nauseated.

 

Of course, he might have helped the effects along.

 

In her last cup of coffee, he had ignored his previous pattern of _small amounts_ to top each of her drinks off with and he had just finished off the entire vial with a flourish. Red John only had so much patience and while he didn’t fear anybody from the Serious Crimes Unit returning for the night—Teresa had probably found the meal that he had thrown together for her, laced with another sleeping pill as he planned to keep her far away from the CBI and from Grace. Rigsby had briefly mentioned that Benjamin was sick and Sarah was with her mother for the weekend, leaving both father and son to bond.—he still couldn’t risk Wainwright showing up and spoiling all of his plans.

 

Red John set Patrick’s book down upon his desk with a certain amount of heaviness within his chest. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn’t be stepping into the CBI anymore; the endless days of solving cases and getting in Teresa’s pants would be over and Red John knew he would miss that.   
  
He enjoyed the freedom that being Patrick had brought him; the chance to stroll down the street without worrying that someone knew his secret, the chance to see what things life held other than just abuse and murder, or the chance to look in the mirror and see an actual face instead of a black mask.

 

However, Red John knew that he would never truly have freedom until the moniker of _Red John_ was long gone and for that to happen, somebody—Patrick Jane—had to take the fall for it all. He would miss his favorite nemesis, of course, but everything was already cemented in stone.

 

The image of Patrick in an orange jumpsuit, rotting away in prison for something he couldn’t even remember doing, made him feel no guilt. Patrick, if the man had continued on with his quest for vengeance, would have eventually become the one thing he despised: a serial killer. Red John was merely helping the man along and by doing so, Patrick would be doing him a favor; Red John would no longer have to seclude himself away from the world. He would be able to reveal his true identity to the world and he would be able to have the submissive wife, the 2.5 kids with a dog, and a white picket fence to keep them all safe from the demons of the world.

 

But he wondered if having everything would be enough to make him forever retire his name, his signature—the last thing he had of his mother’s—and his knife, which had been with him from the age of seventeen.

 

After all, as he had figured out, he would no longer have someone to play mind games with or have the thrill in knowing that Patrick Jane was chasing him down again. He would have to make do with a _boring_ life and if he couldn’t do that, everything he had planned for Patrick and his unit was entirely moot.

 

With the shake of his head, Red John stood from Patrick’s seat and approached the redhead, who had her hands pressed against her stomach.

 

            “Are you okay, Grace?” Red John asked, feigning concern for her. “You look ill. Is there anything I can do for you?” Grace turned her head slightly to stare at him; the slut’s brown eyes were wide open and she wore a silly smile across those dirty lips of hers, as she stared at him.

 

            “Jane!” Grace replied back, brightly and he continued to frown. “I am feeling fine! Better than fine actually! How are you feeling? Good, I hope!” He didn’t answer her. “Well, I should get back to work! Lisbon will be angry with me if I don’t and I want to impress her.” Red John was almost disappointed that the GHB within her system hadn’t made Grace aggressive, although the slightly larger grin on her lips amused him; it most certainly did not match her words, but he thought that the temporary euphoria from the drug was to blame.

 

            “And you’re doing an excellent job of that, Grace.” Red John told her and she continued to smile. “But maybe Lisbon wouldn’t mind you taking a break, hm? She gets awfully concerned about her employees, who don’t rest themselves after working hard _all_ day.” His placed his hand to Grace’s shoulder and moved his thumb in circles upon her jacket, while he could feel her muscles trembling from the effects of the drug. Grace stared up at him with those wide eyes of hers and her behavior reminded him of a little doe: innocent, naïve and waiting for the next move. “I’ll take you home, what do you say? You just have to give me your keys and we’ll be good to go. I’m sure you doing this will make Lisbon extra impressed.”

 

Grace blinked as if she was trying to process his words, before she slowly nodded and he watched her hands gingerly move to remove the car keys from within her desk drawer. She handed them to him and in return, he helped her from her chair—Grace swayed slightly in her spot and he threw his arm around her waist to support her on their way from the bullpen.

 

Leaving everything as it had been, he and Grace stepped from the CBI.

 

She was unconscious before they even left the parking lot. 

* * *

 

He took a moment to appreciate his helpless prey, as he stared down at Grace’s exposed body with a soft smile. Her long red hair fanned out all around her ivory skin from how he had gently placed her atop Patrick’s white sheet, a peaceful expression upon her pretty face, her toned arms attached to her broad shoulders, her rounded breasts that moved with every breath that she took, her flat stomach, and her slender hips that extended into long, toned legs that seemed to take up the entire length of Patrick’s queen-sized bed.

 

Long before he had bedded Teresa, Red John had conjured up the fantasy of an extremely willing Grace in front of him: his hands caressed her magnificent breasts, his tongue lapped at her warm juices that seeped from her and her tongue, once he had given her permission, licked at his dick like a lollipop.

 

The conjured up Grace with her large tits and obedient behavior had always been the center of many of his sexual fantasies. He had always wanted to decorate her body with strawberry glaze, before he would use his tongue to lick her out and clean. He had also always wanted to use her handcuffs to force her hands behind her back, before he would have ordered her down on her knees with the instruction to call him, “master”.

 

However, Teresa had come along with her voluptuous breasts with their wet, rose-tipped nipples that he could taste for hours and the juices between her legs that tasted so sweet on his tongue and the brown-haired woman had replaced Grace in most of his sexual fantasies.

 

Red John’s smile became a grimace. Grace had nothing on Teresa, but he had her body in front of him like a rag doll and he had learned never to let anything—especially youthful women—go to waste.

 

He quickly dropped his pants and boxers to the floor before he lowered himself down on her; she smelled faintly of lilacs and sweat, which he despised with every fiber of his being. His mother’s funeral had been adorned with lilacs and the smell; he associated with her dead body.  With a grimace, he impaled her with his dick and tried to ignore the sickly sweet smell, as he pounded himself into unconscious body without a condom to protect either of them.

 

She remained completely still as he continued to pin both of her arms to the bed, just in case the drugs wore off; in the faint light of the room, he watched her chest rise and fall gently while he continued to have his way with her.

 

Red John wanted her to feel every little ache and pain come morning. He wanted her pupils to dilate out of pain, he wanted her vagina to burn from his violent thrusts, he wanted to make an example out of her by highlighting her fragile skin with black and blue splotches, and he wanted to leave her with a daily reminder that she would never be able to escape him or the things that they had done together.

 

Unfortunately, the drugs that coursed through her veins would make her forget about the lovely time that they had both shared together, which angered him and in response, he drove his teeth into her neck.

 

He pulled away from her neck with the metallic taste of her blood in his mouth and he spat it on her chest; the glob of rosy red liquid that glimmered upon her rising chest delighted him and before he could control himself, he continued to draw blood from both of her breasts and her abdomen. The sanguine liquid filled his mouth and the strong coppery scent of her life, as it pooled upon her body in the indent left behind by his teeth, expelled the scent of lilacs from the room. He briefly smiled, as he felt her blood run down his chin and he watched the droplets plop onto Grace’s bare chest, before he spat the liquid out onto the confines of Patrick’s white bed sheet.

 

He glanced back at the peaceful expression on her face and he grew angry. He wanted her to react. He wanted her to wake up. He wanted her to scream and beg for him.

 

            “You stupid bitch.” Red John muttered into her ear, before he let one of her arms go. She didn’t move. “Did you see what you made me do?” Out of anger, he balled his lone hand into a tight fist and slammed it into her abdomen, her legs and her arms.

 

Red John imagined her screams as he continued to slam his fist into her abdomen every time he jerked violently into her, until he was certain that the heated and bright-red colored flesh would bruise beautifully.  Her imagined screams that echoed in his head combined with the slick layer of blood that he felt coating his dick from his actions between her legs sent him over the edge, as he let out a great cry and climaxed within her.

 

The lingering explosion of ecstasy allowed for him to push his rational thoughts aside, as he pulled himself out of her with a lazy grin and straddled her hips before he took his dick in his hands; the head was covered in both blood and semen, which made him shudder in pleasure. The same liquids, he noticed, seeped from Grace’s nest of red downy curls to pool between her parted legs and he wanted her to clean his dick with her body.

 

He slid his hand down his dick in one swift movement and collected the blood and semen, before he smeared it all over her reddened stomach.

 

He sighed, inaudibly at the sight before him.

 

            “As much fun as you would have been to kill,” Red John whispered into her ear, before he stroked her cheek lightly and removed the rest of her blood and his semen with his motion, “you’re really not worth my time anymore.”

 

Finally bored of her, Red John knew exactly how to finish. Naked, he stood from the bed, stepped toward Patrick’s bathroom, and grabbed the container of petroleum jelly with a matching pair of black gloves from atop the white sink. He briefly spared the medicine cabinet’s reflective surface a glance; Patrick’s naturally blonde curls had matted flat against his head, his pupils were dilated, his complexion was sheen with sweat and the large smile that had yet to disappear upon his face.

 

Slowly, he pulled on his pair of black gloves and tossed the lid of violet-colored jelly aside, before he returned to her. Grace still slumbered on and he glanced back down at her; her abdomen, legs and arms remained colored a bright red from where he had repeatedly slammed his fist into her, her neck and chest that he had decorated with blood and the soft flesh around her opening had a combination of the colors, red and white.

 

            “This will hurt.” Red John told her, softly, before he scooped out a small amount of the violet-colored jelly onto two of his gloved fingers and shoved them into her clitoris. He rubbed his fingers roughly against her inner walls with a smile; his potassium permanganate and petroleum-based mixture would give her something to really complain about, as it would severely burn the inside walls of her vagina. The intense pain from the mixture, he had ultimately decided after many hours of research, would take her mind away from the bomb for a little while longer too.

 

He pulled his fingers out of her and discarded his black gloves onto the floor, before he turned to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Inside, buried amongst Patrick’s journal, remained a lone pair of sharp scissors, two Ziploc plastic bags and the last kitchen knife he would ever use to mar a body.

 

Carefully, Red John pulled out both instruments and set them down on the bed. He said nothing else to her as he brushed his fingers over the knife and settled on picking up the scissors. With his other hand, he grabbed a fist full of her red hair and yanked her toward him. Her head came and with a brief snip of the scissors, he cut half an inch off.

The locks of her precious red hair floated to rest near his bare legs, before he let her head collapse back onto the bed and he quickly separated the locks of red hair between two of his Ziploc bags. Red John set the scissors back down, satisfied with his work on her hair—he didn’t want her or anyone else to notice that she was down an inch or so of hair—he grabbed his kitchen knife and pressed the tip of its sharp blade to the base of her neck.

 

Blood welled up from the shallow cut and surrounded the tip of the blade, before he pressed the blade deeper into her creamy flesh. Red John wanted to see more of her blood and he wanted to leave her with a more permanent reminder of his presence on her body. He watched the blood run from her neck and pool on her shoulder for a moment, before the droplet eventually landed on her chest.

 

The shallow cut and the amount of pooled blood slowly became larger, as he dragged the blade across her neck—deep enough to leave a scar, but not deep enough to kill her or to do any lasting damage.

 

Satisfied with his work on her body, Red John placed his bloody knife down on the sheets, which had become stained semi-pink from the mixture of her blood and his semen. He stepped away from her body and turned around to pick his boxers and pants off the floor. His business with Grace was finished and he hurriedly redressed, mindful of the fact that the unconscious Grace could wake up at any moment to find him in the bedroom and he most _certainly_ didn’t want that.

 

Not yet, anyway. 


	14. Chapter 14

**14—**

****

Lisbon heard Wainwright’s fingers tap against his laptop keyboard, as the Special-Agent-in-Charge remained seated at the small silver table in her office. He had his attention completely focused on whatever he was doing and Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers at the irritating sound. Her head ached, she was beyond exhausted from a lack of sleep and Wainwright’s continuous presence wasn’t helping calm her nerves either. 

 

She tried to ignore him and the reason he was there, but her mind refused to cooperate with her. Jane, her best friend and the man she had slowly come to trust, was missing and he had been gone for almost two weeks now. Wainwright had temporarily relocated himself into her office to help them all out, until the bureau could find someone to replace Cho or Jane returned to work.

 

            “Headache, Agent Lisbon?” Wainwright’s voice caused Lisbon to release her nose and glance at her boss, who stared at her over the screen of his laptop.

 

            “I’m fine, sir.” Lisbon lied. The last thing she needed—or wanted—was for Wainwright to send her home, especially when she worried about Jane and where he was. His disappearance hadn’t sent up any red flags and as far as they all knew, Jane had just decided to take some time off _again_ without informing any of them of where he would be spending the next week or so. Bertram and Wainwright hadn’t seemed too concerned about the lack of consultant and Brenda Shettrick hadn’t asked any of them for a statement yet, but then again, they didn’t know him like she did. Aside from her, the team and Red John, Jane had no one else in his life and the idea that he would leave all of that _willingly_ behind just made no logical sense. “This report is giving me minor problems.”

 

Wainwright didn’t seem too convinced, but she didn’t care. In the past few weeks, the young boss had already proved himself more of a nuisance than anything else had; he had absolutely no field skills, which she had quickly noticed after Wainwright had worked with them on a case in the absence of Van Pelt, who had taken three days in a row off work last week. 

 

Lisbon heard him go back to work, before she sighed under her breath. It had been a while since she had heard Jane’s voice or had felt his fingers touch against her body and as much as she hated to admit it, she really did miss Jane. She missed the man, who against all of the odds, she had slowly come to love over years of bickering, facing demons and crime solving that she couldn’t help _but_ feel, deep down, that something bad had happened to him.

 

She glanced back down at her computer screen and frowned. She honestly wanted to believe that everything _was_ okay with Jane and that Bertram’s words were right, but she just couldn’t; in the nine years that they had both been hunting after Red John, Jane had never taken a “vacation” and she doubted he was going to start now.

 

The loud sound of a cell phone going off interrupted her train of thought and she glanced around for her phone.

 

            “It’s mine.” Wainwright informed her and she lifted her cold cup of coffee from her desk, as she watched him hurry from her office to answer his cell phone in private. Alone, she popped two of the aspirins stashed in the top drawer of her desk into her mouth and washed them both down with a swig of her cold coffee.

 

_If I’m going to deal with him for another six hours,_ she thought bitterly, _I’m not doing it without aspirins._

 

It had been a quiet day so far and Lisbon hoped it would stay that way, as she set her coffee mug back down; she had finished all of her paperwork, before she had checked on Van Pelt and Rigsby, who had both seemed fine with all of the extra paperwork that they both had collected from Cho’s pile. Even with Van Pelt back from her sick leave and Wainwright “lending” a hand, the Serious Crimes Unit was still majorly understaffed.

 

            “Agent Lisbon.” Wainwright spoke again, after he had reentered her office. The frown on his face paired with the seriousness in her voice put her on edge. Had something bad happened? She felt her heart beat quicken within her chest. Had someone found Jane? “We’re up. You will want to bring your team along, Agent.” He said nothing else to her as she watched him step over to his discarded laptop and close it with one hand before he picked it up from the small table and left the room again.

 

Lisbon stood from her desk chair, not wanting to waste time, before she hurried from her office. The short walk from her office into the somewhat crowded bullpen had only taken a few seconds and after a few short nods to the working individuals around her, Lisbon stepped past them until she stood halfway between Rigsby’s and Van Pelt’s desks. 

 

She cleared her throat to gain their undivided attention and Rigsby glanced up at her, an ink pen in his hand. “Boss?”

 

            “We have a case.” Lisbon told him. Rigsby nodded and she watched him stand from his desk chair, before she turned on her heels and glanced at Van Pelt. Van Pelt had her complete attention on her darkened computer screen and Lisbon placed her hand on the Junior Agent’s shoulder.  She felt Van Pelt jump at her touch, which aggravated her. Van Pelt wasn’t being paid to daydream, she was being paid to solve murders and follow directions. “What are you waiting for, Van Pelt? Hell to freeze over?”

 

Van Pelt slowly turned in her desk chair; the young woman had her hands clenched into tight fists against her stomach and her eyes went from the computer to the floor. Van Pelt, Lisbon quickly noticed, still looked a little under the weather. The redhead wore a deep purple long-sleeved turtleneck sweater, while her fists trembled slightly. After a moment of silence, Van Pelt glanced up at her and Lisbon blinked at the sight before her: dark circles, a deathly pale complexion and bloodshot eyes.

 

Lisbon rolled her eyes and Van Pelt glanced back down at the floor.

 

            “Move it, Van Pelt.” Lisbon ordered. “Or I will send your ass home, permanently.” Usually, she had more patience to deal with the little things. But with Jane and Cho gone, a massive headache on the horizon and the bureau breathing down her neck, she couldn’t handle anything more. Lisbon crossed her arms against her chest as she watched Van Pelt start to move from her chair, but it wasn’t fast enough and Lisbon sneered.

 

            “If you wanted to sit on your ass all day,” Lisbon threw, “you should have become a receptionist. This is _real work_ , Van Pelt.” Van Pelt said nothing and Lisbon gritted her teeth together. “If you want to sit behind a desk and look _pretty_ , go right ahead, but make sure that when you do get that receptionist job; you wear a low-cut shirt and an even shorter skirt.” Van Pelt had almost pulled herself out of the chair, when Lisbon continued. “Try to not sleep with your new co-workers either, Van Pelt, it might ruin your already _fabulous_ reputation.”

 

With those words, Lisbon gave up on Van Pelt and stormed out of the bullpen in anger.

 

_If she had wanted to laze around and do nothing_ , Lisbon thought as she pushed the doors to the flight of steps open, _she should have called off work. I don’t have time for her right now, as I have a case to solve._

* * *

Lisbon slammed her car door shut, before she crossed the county line from Sacramento and into Amador with Rigsby and Wainwright following behind. Rigsby hadn’t said anything to her from the moment that they had all left the CBI parking lot, which had irritated her even more. She knew he still harbored feelings for Van Pelt, even with Sarah and Benjamin in his life, but the cold shoulder wasn’t going to do anything aside from annoy the hell out of her.

 

The unusually bright sunlight from the dry surroundings of Amador County made her wish that she had brought along a pair of sunglasses, as from the looks of the cop cars on the side of the road, she had a feeling that they would be out there for a long while.

 

            “You the CBI?” Came a gruff voice from behind them and she turned on her heels to find a thin strawberry-blonde haired female, who had her arms crossed against her white jacketed chest. The woman didn’t look too pleased to see them, but then again, if she belonged with the Amador County Police Department—her rude behavior made total sense, especially as the officers within Amador were had always been too proud to take the help offered to them by the CBI.

 

            “Yes, we are.” Wainwright replied, before Lisbon had the chance to say anything. “I’m Agent Luther Wainwright.” Wainwright gestured toward himself and then, to Rigsby. “This is Agent Wayne Rigsby.” Lastly, Wainwright gestured toward her. “And this is Agent Teresa Lisbon.” The woman nodded. “Who are you?”

 

            “I’m Amador’s Police Chief Vanessa Moore.” Moore introduced herself and Wainwright stuck his hand out toward her, which the strawberry-blonde ignored. “You must be the agent I talked too earlier?”

 

            “I am.” Wainwright replied as he retracted his hand with a smile and Lisbon refrained from rolling her eyes. Wainwright knew how to do paperwork, not how to deal with hostile officers from other police departments and petty jurisdiction squabbles. “What do you have for us, Chief Moore?”

 

Moore motioned for them to follow her and Lisbon watched the thirty-something police chief shove her hands into the pockets of her white jacket, before she started down the long stretch of rural road.

 

            “Firstly.” Moore spoke again. Lisbon caught the arrogant tone in Moore’s voice and she braced herself to jump into the conversation, as the last thing any of them needed was an argument to break out between the CBI and Amador PD. “Having you all here wasn’t my idea. It was on the advice of my head detective, who noticed the M.O. right away.”

 

            “What M.O.?” Lisbon asked as Moore brought them to a guard rail on the side of the road, which they all stepped over at her silent request. Moore said nothing else as she led them down the steep and grassy embankment. It was only when Lisbon had spotted the rear of a light brown jeep and the towering tree that had smashed the vehicle in its tracks, did Moore turn around and face them.

 

            “A troop of girl scouts found the vehicle this morning.” Moore stated, instead of answering Lisbon’s question. “No bodies, keys still in the ignition and the battery within the car had been completely drained.” Lisbon furrowed her brows in confusion. If there wasn’t an active crime scene, why were they there? She glanced at Wainwright, who avoided her gaze. “I sent my Junior Detective and my Head Detective out to investigate, when they found the dried blood within the vehicle.” Moore said nothing else and Lisbon nodded; dried blood didn’t necessarily mean that somebody was dead; it could have just meant that somebody was injured from the car crash.

 

            “Do you know who the vehicle belongs to?”

 

Moore shook her head. “The glove compartment was empty, Agent Lisbon. We haven’t been able to run the plates yet, but we will. The blood will be a little harder to run though.” Lisbon opened her mouth to ask why, when Moore continued on. “My Junior Detective believed that two people _were_ in the vehicle; the amount of blood splatter between the driver, passenger and backseats confirm it.”

 

            “Is it possible that the car crash could have caused any of the blood splattering within the vehicle?” Lisbon questioned and she saw Moore raise her eyebrows in Wainwright’s direction.

 

            “You didn’t tell them, Agent Wainwright?” Moore questioned. Wainwright said nothing, as Moore smirked slightly. “I thought the CBI shared everything; I guess not.” Lisbon rolled her eyes in irritation. “Well, Agent Lisbon.” Moore replied with a dark chuckle. “Unless a tree can somehow cause a bloody smiley symbol, I…”

 

Lisbon didn’t hear the rest of whatever Moore had to say, as she sprinted past the woman with her heart pounding in her chest. Jane drove a little blue vehicle; she tried to remind herself, not a jeep. Jane doesn’t own a jeep.

 

She shoved past the countless detectives and the uniformed officers, who lingered in her way of reaching the vehicle. She had to see inside the vehicle and she had to know that Red John hadn’t done anything to Jane.

 

            “Let her through.” Moore’s voice powered through the crowd and Lisbon was suddenly met with less of resistance.

 

Lisbon said nothing, as she leaned into the vehicle and glanced around the interior; the white cloth driver and passenger seats had both been splattered with enough blood to suggest that a car accident hadn’t been the cause for most of it.

 

Almost nervously, she glanced toward the backseat of the vehicle through the rearview mirror. On the white fabric of the backseat, Red John had taken the time to decorate an entire mural of his own smiley faces all of them seemed to be winking at _her_. Her breath caught in her thought as she glanced around for a body, just in case Red John had stashed one away somewhere, but she couldn’t find anything and her heart skipped a beat.

_If it had been Jane, Red John would have left his body for us to find._ A smile slowly spread across her face, as relief flooded through her again. _If it had been Jane, Red John would let us know. It’s not Jane_ , kept running through her head, _it’s not him. He’s safe. He’s okay. Red John doesn’t have him._

            “Boss?” She heard Rigsby’s voice from behind her and she wiped the smile off her face, before she turned to face him.

 

            “What Rigsby?”

 

            “I know who owns this car.” Rigsby answered her with a frown.

 

            “Who owns it?” Lisbon asked, trying to keep from smiling. If Rigsby knew exactly who owned the vehicle, they could all solve the loose ends and she could go back to wait for Jane.

 

            “Grace does, boss.” Rigsby finally gave and Lisbon blinked.

 

            “It can’t be.” She denied, immediately. Van Pelt, except for three days last week, had been showing up and leaving work on time. “If she was in a car accident, Rigsby, I think I would…”

 

            “The rear plate on the vehicle reads Iowa, boss.” Rigsby interrupted. “Grace has never changed her plates over from Iowa to California.” She watched him lift his hand to the back of his neck and rub. “I was also there when she bought the vehicle. She doesn’t keep the registration papers in the glove compartment; she keeps them tucked away in her sun visor.” Rigsby stepped closer to the jeep and with his gloved hands; he flipped down the sun visor on the driver’s side to reveal a bunch of papers. Lisbon accepted them from Rigsby, before she scanned each registration document with her eyes and found Van Pelt’s name printed on almost every page.

 

            “Agent Wainwright!” Lisbon called the Special-Agent-in-Charge over, while she shoved the papers into her pocket. She knew Wainwright would eventually uncover who owned the vehicle, but she needed to speak with Van Pelt before he did. She said nothing else, until Wainwright stood across from her. “I need you to take point for an hour or so. Something has suddenly come up that needs my immediate attention.” 

 

            “Of course, Agent Lisbon.” Wainwright agreed and she let out the breath that she had been holding. “Do you need Agent Rigsby?” Without even glancing at Rigsby, who stood behind Wainwright with his arms crossed against his chest, Lisbon shook her head. 

 

Rigsby would stall Wainwright and the Amador Police Department long enough, she hoped, to where she could get an answer from Van Pelt on why her car was in the middle of nowhere and why hadn’t reported her vehicle stolen.

 

She only hoped Van Pelt’s answer didn’t come down to her being another one of Red John’s moles, as she didn’t know if she would be able to control herself from attacking the only person who knew where and who Red John truly was.

* * *

 Lisbon motioned for Van Pelt to sit down on her white couch, before she pulled up a chair and waited for the younger agent to make herself comfortable. Van Pelt stared down at the floor and Lisbon knew if she wanted anything from the woman, patience was the key.

 

Unfortunately for them both, she didn’t have the current luxury of patience when it came to getting information.

 

            “I’m sorry I haven’t cleared out my desk yet, boss.” Lisbon heard Van Pelt say quietly. She blinked in surprise at her agent’s words. Had Van Pelt taken her earlier words to heart? She had been highly annoyed with Van Pelt’s seemingly lazy behavior and although her comments may have been harsh, Lisbon had thought that Van Pelt knew she wouldn’t get rid of her for something like that.

 

            “Don’t worry about it.” Lisbon replied with the wave of her hand. “I’m not firing you.” Van Pelt lifted her head from the floor and Lisbon tried to smile to show that she was being serious, but Van Pelt only seemed to sink back into the white couch cushions. “How are you feeling?”

 

            “I’m fine, ma’am.” Van Pelt lied. Lisbon held herself back from jumping onto the obvious lie, as the woman’s cheeks had been decorated with a running trail of mascara earlier. Van Pelt probably thought she was covering her tracks, but Lisbon had known the youngest member of her team for five years and Van Pelt had never been a great liar. Honest eyes apparently gave them both away and sometimes, Lisbon was thankful for it. “Is Rigsby and Wainwright still…” She silenced Van Pelt with a quick look, before the young woman glanced back down at the woodwork of the floor. Lisbon frowned. Van Pelt’s silence and odd behavior unnerved her; the redhead was the bubbly and optimistic face amongst them all and for her to be so quiet and still meant something was definitely wrong.

 

_Whatever is bothering her_ , Lisbon thought, _it’s definitely not illness related._

 

Lisbon fiddled with the cross around her neck. She almost kicked herself for not noticing anything off earlier, especially when Van Pelt hadn’t even _tried_ to defend herself against the hoard of insults. With her eyes still on Van Pelt, Lisbon didn’t exactly want to think in _what if’s_ when it came to any of her employees, but it when it came to Red John and who they all could and who they all couldn’t trust…Lisbon felt as if the what if’s were the only things that would save her life and the life of the individuals on her team.

 

Van Pelt shifted and Lisbon wondered if the agent’s illness had been a byproduct of a combination of things or if the illness had been brought as an order for Red John.  Either way, she knew she had to find out.

 

            “Where’s your vehicle, Van Pelt?” Lisbon asked and she watched Van Pelt tense, which put her on high alert. If Van Pelt had nothing (or no one) to fear, why in the world would the woman tense?

 

            “It’s in the parking lot, boss.”

 

Lisbon gritted her teeth to stay calm. _Patience_ , she reminded herself. Yelling would get them nowhere. “Where at in the parking lot, Van Pelt?”

 

            “In the parking lot.” Van Pelt repeated. Lisbon pulled the registration papers from her pocket and tossed them to Van Pelt, who briefly glanced down at them and then away again. “Where did you get those?”

 

            “Where is your car?” Lisbon dodged Van Pelt’s question with one of her own. Van Pelt said nothing and Lisbon tapped her foot against the floor in impatience. “And don’t continue to insult my intelligence by lying, Grace. Where is your car?”

 

            “It’s in the side parking lot, boss.” Van Pelt sounded on the verge of tears. She’d probably hate herself for this later, but it had to be done.

 

            “If you don’t tell me the truth,” Lisbon said after she had cleared her throat and had gained Van Pelt’s attention. “I’ll have you arrested for the obstruction of justice, Van Pelt. If you don’t tell me, Wainwright wants to question you later, I will let him bring up charges.” She watched Van Pelt’s reaction to her bait; the woman’s head shot up and her brown eyes grew wide, as if she were scared at the threat. “Do you know what they…”

 

            “My car was stolen, boss.” Van Pelt answered, finally. “I don’t know where it is.”

 

            “I know.” Lisbon softly replied. Van Pelt blinked and she continued on. “We found your vehicle wrapped around a tree in Amador County.”

 

A brief flicker of awareness crossed Van Pelt’s face. “Our current…?”

 

            “Yes, Van Pelt. The current case.” Van Pelt grew quiet. “Why didn’t you report your car stolen?” She gained no response again. “Van Pelt, why didn’t you?”

 

            “I had no idea it was taken from me until the next morning, boss.” Van Pelt explained as she bit her lip. “I was sick and Jane offered to take me home and…”

 

            “Jane?” Lisbon repeated. Van Pelt slowly nodded and the bad feeling that had gone away with not finding Jane’s body spread through her body. No one—except Van Pelt, who had apparently allowed for Jane to take her home—had seen Jane past seven o’clock the night he had disappeared without a trace. “Do you remember what time he took you home?”

 

            “I don’t remember.” Van Pelt said. “I was sick. That’s all I know.” Lisbon watched Van Pelt’s eyes dart toward the exit of her office briefly, as if she were looking for an escape and Lisbon wondered if the woman knew more than she was letting on. She had acted sad—almost surprised—when Lisbon had informed of Jane’s disappearance, but it didn’t mean that Van Pelt wasn’t an excellent actress.

 

            “You’re the last person who saw Jane, Van Pelt.” Lisbon told her. Van Pelt’s shoulders dropped slightly and Lisbon wondered what she was missing, but she pushed the feeling aside to concentrate on Jane’s disappearance. “Did he say anything to you?”

 

            “It was all a blur.”

 

Lisbon studied Van Pelt for a moment; the deathly pale woman trembled slightly and she had her hands pressed against her stomach, yet she didn’t have the expression that had signaled her as a liar to Lisbon earlier. “Who do you think did this to you, Van Pelt?”

 

            “I don’t know.” Van Pelt stated, before she brought her hands from her stomach and crossed her arms against her chest. Lisbon took a moment to recollect her thoughts; what had exactly happened from the moment that Jane had offered to take Van Pelt home to the moment where he had left them all without a word. Red John had clearly been involved in the theft of Van Pelt’s vehicle—the smiley face on the backseat had told her that much—which meant that the serial killer had most likely had a hand in Jane’s so-called disappearance, as well. Lisbon stared at Van Pelt, unsure of how to proceed; Jane would have demanded that they pounce on her as her behavior—the shiftiness, the silence and the jumpiness—signaled that she obviously knew more than she was letting on. She, on the other hand, didn’t think Van Pelt was hiding anything related to Red John.

 

_You don’t know that_ , Lisbon heard Jane’s voice in her head, _Red John is everywhere._

 

The voice in her head had a valid point; Red John _was_ everywhere and she would be a fool not to press forward.

 

            “It was most likely Red John who stole your vehicle, Van Pelt.” Lisbon watched closely for a reaction of _any_ kind to see if the young agent had been working for Red John, but aside from the tilt of her head and the slight rocking motion of her body, she gleamed nothing. “We found his smiley in your car, Grace. Jane’s gone. Did Red John do this?” Silence met her again and Lisbon stood from her chair. “Grace? Did Red John do this to you?” She lowered her voice and took a step closer, hoping not to scare Van Pelt. Red John’s moles didn’t scare easily, but she needed to know. “Did Red John take Jane?”

 

Van Pelt said nothing for a few moments; her body still shook, as she rocked herself back and forth and Lisbon wondered how much of it was an act. Lisbon bent down to Van Pelt’s eye level and opened her mouth to say something, when Van Pelt spoke instead. “No, ma’am. I don’t remember. I really don’t.” Lisbon didn’t know what to believe; she trusted her agent, but she still felt that something was wrong about this entire situation. “Can I leave now? Please?”

 

She stared at her agent, who seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, before she nodded. Van Pelt threw herself off the couch; her hands back against her stomach, as she limped away. Lisbon watched her leave and in the end, she couldn’t help but fear for the worst and at the same time have hope that the blood within the smiley face had been Van Pelt’s and not Jane’s.


	15. Chapter 15

**15—**

****

Lisbon almost flushed the toilet after she had emptied her full bladder within the CBI bathroom, when she heard the sound of someone heaving in the stall next to her. The very sound—wet and throaty—nearly turned her stomach inside out, but she pushed past her own queasiness to flush the toilet. She tried to focus on the yellow-tinted water, as it swirled within the bowl and disappeared down the siphon jet, but the person’s continuous heaving made it hard to do.

 

            “Are you okay?” Lisbon asked, after the woman in the next stall had quieted. “Do you need me to call a doctor?” She gained no response and Lisbon unlocked her own bathroom door, before she rapped lightly on the person’s stall door. She didn’t want to spend all day in the bathroom, trying to get an answer out of a sick woman, but it was better than sitting in her office all day worrying about Jane or dealing with Brenda Shettrick every five minutes or so.

 

            “I’m fine,” a weak—yet extremely familiar—voice replied from within the stall moments later.

 

            “Grace?” Lisbon asked with a frown. “What’s wrong?” She had been trying to keep more of an eye on her youngest team member after Wainwright had demanded answers out of her and she had burst into tears, but with everything going on, it was difficult to do.

 

            “Everything is fine, boss.” Van Pelt responded, though she sounded on the verge of tears and Lisbon pounded on the stall door again. “I’m just sick. It’s the stomach flu.”

 

            “Didn’t we talk about you lying to me a few weeks ago?” Lisbon questioned and she heard Van Pelt heave again. “Open the door, Grace.” After a few more moments, Lisbon heard the lock on the door unclick and she pushed the door aside with her hand to find the redhead on the floor with her chin against the toilet rim. “This isn’t what I would call fine, Van Pelt.” The young woman turned her head to stare at Lisbon with a grimace. Van Pelt had pulled her long red hair back into a messy ponytail, and even in the fluorescent lighting, she looked completely exhausted. “You need to go to the doctor.”

 

            “I’m fine.” Van Pelt repeated with her brown eyes wide and Lisbon stepped into the large bathroom stall, before she locked the door behind her to allow them both some privacy. “Really, boss. I…”

 

            “Cut the crap, Van Pelt.” Lisbon interrupted and the young agent turned away from her to rest her chin on the toilet rim again. “You’re not fine. You’ve been sick and exhausted for weeks. You refused to go on a stakeout with Rigsby, Grace.” Van Pelt said nothing and Lisbon sighed. “I’m really trying here, but you have to give me something to work with.” She watched Van Pelt’s shoulders start to shake and Lisbon hoped the woman wasn’t about the cry, as she would feel odd about trying to comfort her in a bathroom stall.

 

            “I’m sorry…” Van Pelt started, before she heaved again and Lisbon continued to frown. Van Pelt had asked to take her lunch break almost twenty minutes ago and she had looked a little green, even then.

 

            “Why are you apologizing?” Lisbon asked her a few minutes later. She watched Van Pelt’s shoulders move again.

 

            “You have enough on your plate.” They all did, really. But that didn’t stop her from being concerned about any person on her unit.

 

In a dark long-sleeved sweater, Van Pelt glanced back at her with beads of sweat decorating her forehead and the young woman dragged one of her sleeves across her forehead. The dark sleeve rose up just enough for Lisbon to catch a glimpse of something yellowish-brown on her arm and before Van Pelt could put her arm back down; Lisbon had the sleeve pushed back.

 

            “What the hell is this, Van Pelt?” Lisbon asked. She had her eyes focused on Van Pelt’s right arm, which had been covered in fading yellow and brown bruises. Van Pelt yanked her arm away and pulled the sleeve back down.

 

            “It’s nothing, boss.” Van Pelt answered, still on the floor. Lisbon didn’t believe her for a second. “I fell last week and injured myself.”

 

Bruises lasted for two weeks. Van Pelt’s bruises looked nearly two-weeks-old and falling certainly didn’t cause a bruise pattern in the shape of a fist either.

 

            “Who hurt you, Grace?” The answer was delayed with another round of heaving. Lisbon placed her hand on Van Pelt’s back awkwardly and she glanced up at the ceiling. Out of everything she had expected to deal with at work, a sick Van Pelt wasn’t even at the top of her list of things to do. “Tell me, Van Pelt.” Lisbon demanded after Van Pelt had pulled herself away from the inside of the toilet to stare down at the floor. “What happened?”

 

Lisbon heard the main bathroom door open and close again within the timespan of five minutes, before Van Pelt spoke again.

 

            “I was sick.” Van Pelt started. She had her voice lowered into a whisper and Lisbon had to bend down to hear her clearly. “Jane offered to take me home and I let him.” Lisbon said nothing. From the way Van Pelt held herself though, Lisbon knew interruptions or a look of impatience to hurry up would do nothing but cause more problems. “I don’t remember the car ride. I don’t remember being taken out of the car.” Van Pelt continued. Her brown eyes wet and bright as Lisbon caught her eyes again. “I just remember waking up.” Lisbon watched Van Pelt glance down at her arms again. “I wasn’t wearing anything. Everything hurt; I burned all over.”

 

Lisbon stared at her youngest employee in masked horror. If Red John had been the one to steal Van Pelt’s vehicle with her and Jane in it, then it meant that the serial killer had also been the one to undress her and to rape her. She grew nauseated and then angry. Was killing innocent men, women and children not enough for the sick bastard that he had to change things up by kidnapping Jane—Amador PD had confirmed that the smiley face on the backseat of Van Pelt’s car had been drawn in his blood—and raping Van Pelt? Van Pelt, who had been trying to move past Craig O’Laughlin, hadn’t deserved what had happened to her.

 

            “I pulled myself from the bed; there was so much blood.” Lisbon heard Van Pelt heave again, but she couldn’t bring herself to comfort the woman. After all, what was she supposed to say? _I understand_ or _everything will be okay,_ when she didn’t understand and when she knew that not everything would okay. At least whoever had bombed Cho would eventually be caught and Cho could put it behind him, while Red John would never be caught and even if he was, Van Pelt would forever be haunted by his demons. “Who was bleeding? Why were the sheets stained pink?” Van Pelt grew silent again. Lisbon waited, nervously. “I was bleeding. My blood stained the sheets, my blood decorated me. I was in my blood. In that moment, I felt small and worthless. Why hadn’t he just killed me? Why had God allowed him to do this to me?”

 

Her heart ached for Van Pelt, whose voice had remained emotionless up until her last sentence. She moved her hand toward Van Pelt’s back again, but she stopped herself at the last second; touch, if she remembered correctly, could trigger flashbacks and the last thing Lisbon wanted was for Van Pelt to have a full-blown panic attack.

 

            “Do you know where you were?” Lisbon asked, gently. She didn’t want to push Van Pelt into remembering, but the location of wherever Red John had taken her would give them all a possible starting point to work off of toward finding Jane. Van Pelt grew silent again and Lisbon called out her name again. “Van Pelt? Do you remember anything about where you were?”

 

            “It was a room, a small one.” Van Pelt answered with a small voice. “Red curtains. Two-toned walls. Several lamps. Two chairs. A queen-sized bed. A picture of two trees above the bed, done in white and green. Two bedside tables. A microwave. A television…” It sounded like any other normal motel room and in Sacramento; there were plenty of those to keep them all searching for the rest of their lives.

 

            “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Lisbon hoped Van Pelt remembered more than just the inside of the motel room.

 

            “Palm tree.” Van Pelt replied in a whisper. “There was a fake palm tree outside; I could see it from where I was.”

 

            “A fake...” Lisbon started, before she trailed off in midsentence. Outside, Jane’s extended stay motel had a fake palm tree that she had remembered seeing months ago. Would Red John really be _that_ reckless to abduct Jane and rape Van Pelt in Jane’s motel room? Killers had unusual amounts of hubris when it came to their crimes, but the idea of Red John making it so easy for them all—for her—made her wonder if he had something much larger planned. Fear danced down her spine. What if Red John came after Cho or Rigsby next?

 

Both of them could protect themselves; they had guns and confined to a wheelchair or not, Cho could handle himself. It just made her nervous that Red John continued to pull all of the strings on their investigations and in their lives, while he watched them from afar making foolish mistakes. 

 

            “I don’t know what to do.” Van Pelt interrupted Lisbon’s musing.

 

            “We’ll figure it out, Van Pelt.” Lisbon promised. “You don’t have to do this on your own.” If Van Pelt didn’t want her help, she still had Rigsby to lean on; and Lisbon was absolutely sure that Sarah or no Sarah, Rigsby would bend over backwards to help her out as he would do anything for the first woman he had truly loved. 

 

            “You don’t understand.” Van Pelt responded flatly, before she moved to face Lisbon. Van Pelt’s eyes were still bloodshot and the smallest residue of vomit still clung to her pink lips. “I’m pregnant with his child. Of course, I have to do this on my own.” Lisbon stared at Van Pelt in shock, as the woman stared on without a trace of emotion across her face. “After all, boss, who is going to want a slut?”

* * *

Even with Van Pelt’s unofficial statement and Darcy’s push on the judge, it took them three days to obtain the warrant to search Jane’s motel room. Lisbon had tried to ignore the nagging thought that an additional three days was enough time for Red John to kill Jane’s body, as she and Rigsby sped down the road near the Parkway Extended Stay Motel.

 

Lisbon heard Rigsby tap his fingers against the armrest with a frown. After Van Pelt had dropped that she was pregnant, Lisbon had asked Rigsby if he and Van Pelt had been engaged in any romantic affairs lately, but the taller agent had denied any affair between himself and Van Pelt as he had Sarah and Benjamin to think about. She had felt horrible for asking him, but before they could approach a judge about getting a search warrant, she had to be 100% sure that Van Pelt’s story hadn’t been fabricated—Lisbon believed her, however, it was always possible that the judge wouldn’t—

 

She pulled into the Extended Stay Motel parking lot and parked in the front, before she undid her seat belt and left the vehicle in silence. Rigsby followed behind her, as they climbed the steps to room 239: Patrick Jane’s motel room.

 

            “We might have to find someone to unlock the door.” Lisbon advised Rigsby, while she put her hand to the door handle and pressed down. It clicked and Lisbon went for her gun. With a gentle shove, the door opened and she stepped foot into the room which smelled strongly of bleach.

 

Bright lights flooded the room and Lisbon put her gun away after she had determined that the only two people in Jane’s motel room were herself and Rigsby.

 

            “Someone cleaned up in here.” Rigsby commented from near the bathroom as she glanced around the room; Van Pelt had said there was a _picture of two trees above the bed, done in white and green_ and a picture of two trees done in white and green sat above a stripped queen-sized bed. The floor was also clean of any blood traces. Lisbon doubted Red John had been the one to clean the room, due to the fact it went against his pattern; he wanted his crime scenes to be discovered, not make it look as if the crime had never happened.

 

_Van Pelt probably cleaned it up_ , Lisbon thought. She wasn’t angry with her agent for trying to pretend it had never happened, but the thought of Van Pelt—down on her knees and in pain—cleaning up the evidence made her stomach clench in disgust. They all worked with the serious crimes—murder, manslaughter, assault and battery—and Lisbon still couldn’t understand why Red John did the things he did.

 

            “Boss!” Lisbon shook her head to clear her thoughts and she ran into the small bathroom, where Rigsby had pulled back Jane’s white shower curtain. On the white porcelain surface of the shower remained a bleach-soaked bed sheet; the thin sheet was stained half-white and half-pink and Lisbon motioned for Rigsby to step back. 

 

            “We’re going to need forensics in here.” Lisbon told him with her eyes still focused on the crumpled sheets. Hearing the bare facts from Van Pelt had been one thing, but seeing the proof with her eyes was an entirely different thing. Rigsby didn’t seem bothered by the sheets and she envied his momentary innocence, as the imagined horrors that Van Pelt had gone through didn’t do anything good for anyone. She forced her eyes away from the blood-stained bed sheets and turned to the medicine cabinet, where she pulled on a pair of gloves to assess the objects inside.

 

A container of cotton balls and swabs lined the bottom row, along with a single blue toothbrush and a tube of half-used toothpaste. On the second row, Jane had stored a generic brand of petroleum jelly, which Lisbon quickly opened to find a violet-colored substance within the oblong-shaped container.

 

            “This should be tested.” Lisbon said, sitting the container down on the sink. Petroleum jelly wasn’t supposed to be light purple; it was supposed to be a yellowish color. She went back to examining the contents within the small cabinet.

 

On the top row, she found a few generic boxes of sleeping pills, not that it surprised her at all. Jane was an insomniac, who probably used the sleep-aid on occasion to help him sleep without dreams. Lisbon also found a few unmarked pill bottles, which she set on the sink as well.

 

Lisbon closed the cabinet and left the bathroom to explore the small kitchen. On the plain counter sat a standard-issued microwave, a coffee maker and a lone teacup.

 

            “Nothing on top of the counter.” Lisbon called to Rigsby. “I’m going to check underneath.” Lisbon bent down to open each one of the cabinets. The first cabinet held several hot plates and the second cabinet held the usual set of cooking utensils every kitchen had. The third cabinet though held many things that didn’t belong in a kitchen cabinet. Lisbon scanned the items with her eyes; an unmarked bottle filled with a dark liquid substance remained hidden behind the lemon-scented air freshener, the laptop Jane had borrowed from the CBI, and a kitchen blade hidden amongst the red, white and green pattern less kitchen mitts.

 

She removed the blade and set it atop the counter, before she went back to closely inspecting the kitchen mitts for any trace. The red and white kitchen mitts had nothing on them, aside from a stain of tea. One of the green mitts, however, had a blood-colored stain on it. Van Pelt had said nothing about a knife and Lisbon hoped the knife—if it was blood, anyway—didn’t belong to her.

 

            “I found a half-empty container of bleach tossed behind the toilet.” Rigsby said.

 

            “Anything else?” Lisbon asked, as she stood from the cabinets to face him. Rigsby shook his head. “I found a knife and a stain of what might be blood.”

 

Rigsby’s eyes went to the knife. “It’s a kitchen knife.” Lisbon nodded. Red John used a kitchen knife. “Do you think he…?”

 

            “Red John,” Lisbon interrupted, “wouldn’t have had enough time to kidnap Jane and return to stash the knife.” Rigsby nodded. She hadn’t told him about Van Pelt, as the young woman had asked her not to and Lisbon respected her wishes. “Aside from that, why would he even give us his knife?” Rigsby didn’t answer her question. “Check the closet. I’m going to check under and around the bed.”

 

Lisbon turned toward the bed and bent down on her hands and knees to glance under the bed. The strong scent of bleach overwhelmed her senses again and she covered her nose with her hand, before she peeked under the bed. Darkness obscured her eyes but a flash of something caught her eye. She uncovered her nose and went fishing for whatever object was just out of her reach.

 

            “I found nothing, boss.” Lisbon heard Rigsby’s voice as she grabbed the object under the bed and carefully pulled it out.

 

It was a single black kitchen glove, sticky with some type of residue and blood.

 

            “Is that…?”

 

            “Red John’s glove.” Lisbon muttered in surprise. Rigsby fell silent and Lisbon wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was.

 

With Red John’s glove, they were one step closer to finding Red John.

 

_And one step closer to finding Jane_ , Lisbon realized silently as her heart collided against her ribcage in excitement and trepidation. 


	16. Chapter 16

**16—**

****

            “A fugitive, Brenda?” Lisbon seethed toward the woman in charge of Public Relations, as she slammed the first page of the newspaper down on Brenda Shettrick’s cluttered desk. “Jane’s been kidnapped. He’s not a fugitive of the law.” She watched Brenda glance up from whatever held her attention to stare at the newspaper.

 

            “Teresa,” Brenda glanced at her. “Nobody is calling him a fugitive.”

 

            “Bull.” Lisbon interrupted. “What does paragraph three say?” Brenda said nothing and Lisbon picked up the article again. “ _‘Mr. Jane, the consultant for the Serious Crimes Unit, has been on the run for fourteen weeks,’ said an anonymous source within the California Bureau of Investigation. He is wanted for questioning in connection to the Red John case, where Mr. Jane lost his wife and child back in 2003.'If you should see him,’ continued the anonymous source, ‘proceed with caution; do not try and apprehend him by yourself, as he is extremely dangerous. Instead, call your local law agency.’_.” Lisbon slammed the article back down on her desk. “Tell me, Brenda, if that doesn’t spell out _fugitive_ ; I don’t know what does.”

 

            “I’m only doing my job.” Brenda replied. “Director Bertram and Special-Agent-in-Charge Wainwright gave me the statement.” Lisbon rolled her eyes and crossed her arms against her chest. “If you have concerns with that statement, you should take it up with them.” Lisbon narrowed her eyes on Brenda, who went back to whatever she had been doing earlier. “People are more inclined to report a criminal than a kidnapped victim. Something you know very well, I’m sure.”

 

            “This is slander.” Lisbon said, while she pointed at the bold headline. “You have no conclusive facts to…”

 

She watched Brenda glance back up. “I doubt Red John will strike from the information within this article, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Lisbon said nothing. If Brenda thought Red John was merciful, the woman was either naïve, delusional or stupid. Brenda laughed and Lisbon didn’t see how the idea of becoming another one of Red John’s victims was a thing to laugh about. “As for conclusive facts, Teresa, Louisa McKnight did her research in pursuing the material for this article. Calling an award-winning journalist a liar or telling the public all of her information isn't credible will only cause her to dig deeper and for the sake of your unit and the CBI, Director Bertram and myself agreed to give her enough to make her look elsewhere.

            “Trust me, Teresa.” Brenda continued. “If you thought that was bad, McKnight’s research could have uncovered so much more than just where everything was recovered and whose DNA, aside from Patrick’s, was found on the bed sheets.”

 

Lisbon tried to stay calm at Brenda’s words, but the more the woman spoke, the more Lisbon wanted to explode. Just because forensics had found Jane’s blood and semen on the bed sheets and his fingerprints within the gloves didn’t mean a damned thing! Red John could have taken the blood and semen from Jane to frame him for Van Pelt’s rape; but even Van Pelt refused to believe Jane could do something like that. She understood the CBI’s need to minimize the damage as it was probably the number one rule in Public Relations, however, taking an innocent—and maybe even injured—man to place the blame on absolutely disgusted her.

 

Red John had raped Van Pelt, not Patrick Jane. And anybody who said or thought otherwise could go to hell, in her opinion.

 

“Personally, Teresa, this article does more for finding Patrick than the missing person’s statement I made nine weeks ago.” Brenda said and she rolled her eyes at Brenda’s ignorance, before she turned on her heels and left Brenda’s office in a huff.

 

Lisbon didn’t care that had left the newspaper behind or that her exit had been completely unprofessional as she stomped down the hallway and down the flight of steps, which led her back to the Serious Crimes Unit floor. She hadn’t intended to lose her temper with Brenda; the woman meant well and was only trying to do her job, but Brenda had control over what went into the media and _that_ piece of tripe should have never been published in the first place. Logically, if Brenda didn’t agree with what everyone was whispering—Jane was Red John—she shouldn’t have gone to press with any slanderous material, confirmed information or not.

 

            “…don’t need your help, Wayne.” Lisbon overheard Van Pelt’s voice, as she stepped into the kitchenette to find Rigsby pulling out a chair for the pregnant Van Pelt. She shook her head and hid her wistful smile as they both greeted her with the nod of their heads. Even though the pregnancy had come out of horrible circumstances, Rigsby and Van Pelt’s friendship had grown because of it. Rigsby had been there for Van Pelt since she had told him and Lisbon was positive that if Sarah hadn’t been in the picture, Rigsby would have jumped to be the father of Van Pelt’s unborn baby. Van Pelt, on the other hand, kept trying to push him away to focus completely on her work.

 

Outside of a few minor comments, Van Pelt hadn’t been too forthcoming with how she was doing, which bothered Lisbon. Instead of her trying to comprehend everything, Van Pelt had jumped straight from being a victim to numbing her thoughts under a pile of paperwork.

 

She tried to ignore the touching scene behind her as she poured herself a hot mug of coffee and drank it black, but she still caught half of their conversation.

 

            “Do you need anything else, Grace? I have some crackers in my desk, in case you’re feeling nauseous.”

 

            “I’m fine, really. Thank you, though.” Van Pelt said quietly. “I have a slight cold, but Dr. Koors said it was normal.”

 

Dr. Katherine “Kat” Koors was Van Pelt’s OB/GYN; Lisbon had supplied the doctor’s name after Van Pelt had shyly asked for recommendations weeks ago. In all honesty, she hadn’t been too surprised when Van Pelt had informed her of her decision to keep the baby, as Van Pelt probably didn’t believe in the concept of abortion due to her faith.

 

            “And how is the baby doing?” Lisbon couldn’t help the smile at Rigsby’s change of tone. As a father, he had probably talked to Sarah’s stomach many times over the course of nine months and he had probably gotten plenty of smiles and laughs from her too. But the circumstances surrounding Van Pelt’s and Sarah’s pregnancies were completely different;

 

One welcomed the change with open arms, the other tried to pretend everything was fine.

 

            “Content, right now.” Van Pelt answered. She sounded sad and tired, which didn’t surprise Lisbon either. Last week, they had stayed in a motel for a case and Van Pelt hadn’t slept for more than three hours. The lack of sleep and appetite also worried Lisbon to the point where she had reassigned Van Pelt to all desk duties, as the Junior Agent constantly had dizzy spells and the minor lapses in her attention span were dangerous out on the field.

 

            “How are _you_ doing, Grace?”

 

Van Pelt said nothing for a few moments, before she quietly responded. “I’m fine.” Without even glancing at her, Lisbon didn’t believe that for a second.

 

Neither did Rigsby, apparently. “You didn’t eat your lunch today. How do you expect to stay healthy and support your baby at the same time, Grace?” Van Pelt said nothing again. “You need to eat, even if you don’t feel like it.” Lisbon silently agreed with him. At fifteen weeks, she had learned from a quick search online, the expecting mother was supposed to have gained five pounds but Van Pelt kept losing weight.

 

The young agent had been skinny prior to her pregnancy, due to her height and exercise regimen. However, Lisbon feared that anymore weight loss would require a stint for Van Pelt in the hospital with a feeding tube shoved down her throat just to keep both mother and child alive.

 

Lisbon shuddered at the mere thought. She had seen the inside of enough hospitals to last for years; between her brothers, her father, Jane, Bosco, various individuals who couldn’t make statements at headquarters, herself and Cho, she didn’t want to imagine anymore of her people almost dying.

 

She heard a chair scrape across the floor again, when she felt her phone vibrate against her upper thigh. With a roll of her eyes toward the call, Lisbon pulled out her cell phone and held it to her ear.

 

            “Sir, I…” Lisbon started in one breath. Brenda had the number to Bertram’s office and she wouldn’t put it past the woman not to have called the director’s office just to tell him about her behavior earlier.

 

            “Teresa.” Jane’s voice interrupted her in a bare whisper and she about dropped her phone in surprise.

 

            “Jane?” Lisbon asked. Rigsby and Van Pelt silent behind her as she set her coffee mug down on the counter. “Where in the hell are you? Everybody is…”

 

            “Red John has me.” Those four words, a spoken confirmation of what she had already known, made Lisbon’s heart plummet into her stomach. Red John had kidnapped Jane to frame him and once she brought him back from Red John, the CBI would change their stories.

 

Clearing off a space before her and motioning for a piece of paper with a pen, she cleared her throat and asked. “Where?”

* * *

Lisbon had her gun out in front of her as she stepped through the doors to the old Oxley warehouse; the long hallway floor was littered with rat excrements, spider webs, dust, cigarette buds and broken beer bottles from the local teenagers who wanted a place to party.

 

_For this being Red John’s hideout,_ she thought with the closing of another empty spider web-filled record office, _it’s not as secure as I thought it would be._

 

            “Anything?” Lisbon asked Rigsby and Van Pelt, who trailed behind her and searched the rooms on the opposite side of the dreary hallway. She heard one of them shut yet another door.

 

            “Nothing yet.” Rigsby answered, while Van Pelt remained quiet. Lisbon hated the fact that she had to bring Van Pelt along, but she couldn’t trust anyone else within the CBI not to handcuff Jane the moment they stumbled across him. 

 

            “He has to be around here somewhere.” Lisbon muttered, while she opened another door to find absolutely nothing inside of the room except a few plastic chairs and a smashed vending machine and she sighed. Aside from the few clues that Jane had been able to give her, he had sounded awfully unsure of where the serial killer had been keeping him for the past fifteen weeks.

 

Van Pelt though, had been the one to put the clues of _leather_ , _some type of black cloth_ and _an assortment of rusted machines_ together to lead them to Oxley’s Shoe Warehouse, which had been a good two-hour drive from Sacramento.

 

She heard Rigsby mutter something behind her and she threw him a quick glance over her shoulder. Rigsby gestured toward the door on her left side, which made her turn her body to stare into the rather large doorway.

 

In the middle of the large warehouse room, surrounded by rusted machines and broken glass on the floor, sat Patrick Jane in a lone chair. Lisbon pushed past Rigsby to get to Jane, who looked no worse for wear with his head bowed and his hands tied behind his back.

 

_Please God,_ Lisbon hoped silently, _don’t let him be dead._

 

She tucked her gun into her holster, as her hand came into contact with his shoulder. “Jane? Jane? Are you alright?” Lisbon watched his head move until his bluish-green eyes met hers and she sighed in relief at his smile.Jane was fine, everything would be okay. “We need to put a GPS on you.”

 

Jane chuckled, quietly. “Don’t you keep track of me enough, Lisbon?” He wore a bright smile on his sleep-deprived face and she couldn’t help but smile faintly in return. “Untying me would be helpful though.” Lisbon quickly nodded before she stepped behind his chair and effortlessly freed his hands from the thick rope with a few tugs. “How much do I owe you?” Jane didn’t stand up right away and Lisbon offered him her arm, which he slowly took.

 

            “Come on, Jane.” Lisbon told him, as she helped him up from the chair. He took his time getting up and she feared that Red John had somehow injured him. “We need to leave.” Lisbon couldn’t see any visible injuries, but that didn’t mean anything. Red John could wait until after they had all gotten far away and after Jane had been cleared of all his crimes. She felt one of his arms snake around her waist and she continued to faintly smile; even though she would never admit it to him, she missed him and his touch.

 

            “I’m afraid we can’t do that, Teresa.” Jane replied. Lisbon turned her head slightly to glance at him with her eyebrows raised, before she watched him pull away from her with a frown. If the idiot was trying to save them all by playing the hero, she’d kill him.

 

            “What are you…?” The words died on her throat as her vision was met with her gun in Jane’s hand. “Jane? What in the hell are you doing?” She hadn’t even felt him take her gun. How had she not felt that? Jane’s touch on her thigh had never been exactly light. He said nothing. “Put that down. You might…”

 

            “Kill someone, Teresa?” Jane asked still with a smile. She watched his hand move the gun slightly. “Trust me; I know exactly what I’m doing. I am, after all, a consummate professional with any and all weapons.” Lisbon stared at him in confusion. Jane hated guns; he had only fired one twice. The first time, he had dropped the gun after having saved her life. The second time, he had sat the gun down gingerly on the table. “The gun,” he moved his hand again as if he was testing the weight of the gun, “is a weapon worthy of admiration, don’t you think?” He stared down at the gun; and in the daylight from the broken and dirty windows, the light reflected off the metal. “But you really should see what I can do with a knife; a kitchen knife, to be exact.”

 

Lisbon stepped backwards in horror.

 

_No_ , her mind screamed, _he can’t be._

 

            “Don’t look so contrite, Teresa. I’m still the same man you fell in love with.” Jane told her as he stepped closer to her. “I’m still the same man you fucked with that filthy little mouth of yours. The same man you begged to fill your insides months ago…” Lisbon’s face burned with embarrassment and shame. Rigsby and Van Pelt were behind her, listening to every single word and she could feel their judging stares on her back.

 

She had worked with Jane for _years_ and yet she hadn’t been able to figure out he was Red John? Lisbon felt her stomach twist into knots. How had she missed it? She had spent countless days, hours and minutes with him and he was the serial killer that they all had been after for years? She felt disgusted with herself. As the _Senior Agent_ of the Serious Crimes Unit, she had been expected to see the things that no one else could see and she had failed miserably at her job; she was responsible for the lives of three others and she had constantly put them in danger by not seeing the signs.

 

_If there were any_ , Lisbon thought.

 

But who was she trying to fool? Of course there had been signs. Jane had spent hours alone in that little attic of his, he had put himself in the middle of the Red John case and he had gotten close enough to destroy them all.

 

Lisbon frowned. Was she an idiot for having thought the best of him? Jane had always talked about revenge and she had thought she could change him by keeping him close, by listening to him and following his every whim, but he had apparently been playing her the entire time with his golden smiles, the birthday gifts, his kindness and his love for her.

 

_Red John has him hypnotized_ , Lisbon told herself. Jane had lied to her many times, but his love for her had been written all across his face and she knew the dilation of the pupils couldn’t be manipulated. She wanted so desperately to believe that she hadn’t been wrong though; Jane was a good person, even if he was just a little misguided in his ways and he most certainly didn’t have it in him to be a serial killer.

 

Or did he?

 

He had killed Timothy Carter in cold blood, before he had sipped at a cup of tea and had asked the barista for the check in front of five-hundred or more people. Wainwright had apparently told Jane he was a fully-functioning psychopath after he had first taken over the CBI, but Lisbon had never thought much of it. Jane, to her, had always been a mourning husband who had only wanted to get the justice that he thought the law would never provide toward Red John and Wainwright’s _analysis_ had been based off the concept of a five minute surface read.

 

She continued to step backwards, as he continued to close the space between them.

 

_If Red John hypnotized him,_ Lisbon connected silently; _Jane won’t be able to do anything that goes against his moral character._

 

Her heart swelled in her chest.

 

Jane wouldn’t hurt Rigsby or Van Pelt, no matter what Red John had suggested for him to do. Jane didn’t want to hurt his family, who had followed him into every sticky situation out of loyalty and friendship for one another; he only wanted to kill Red John.

 

He also wouldn’t hurt her.

 

Lisbon watched him take another step forward; her gun in his hand still pointed straight at her. She continued to step backwards until she bumped into someone and she turned her head slightly to find Van Pelt, who had her arms wrapped around her stomach. Lisbon couldn’t even imagine what was going through Van Pelt’s head, as the woman looked as if she had seen a ghost; an expression of fear was etched across her colorless skin and her brown eyes were opened wide, focused completely on Jane. Lisbon tried to glance for the woman’s gun, but it was nowhere to be seen.

 

            “Hello, my little pet.” Jane greeted Van Pelt, gently. Lisbon brought her focus back to Jane, who stood a few feet away from them both. “Did you enjoy our lovely time together? I know I did.”

 

She tried to keep the surprise off her face. They had already known what Red John had done, but to hear it coming out of Jane’s mouth—in Jane’s voice—sent her skin crawling. Red John was probably trying to get a rise out of all of them by making Jane admit to all of the serial killer’s crimes and Lisbon wondered how God could have allowed such a monster into the world. It didn’t matter that the world _needed_ a balance of light and dark to function properly, she just wanted one less psychopath in the world.

 

Lisbon noticed Jane’s eyes dart to the right of them both, which almost made her sigh in relief. Jane’s attention had been distracted from Van Pelt, who she could feel shaking behind her, to Rigsby. Aside from trying to keep Jane from being shot, Lisbon knew her number one goal was to keep both Van Pelt and Rigsby alive.

 

            “And Agent Rigsby.” Jane spoke again. “I can see why you were attracted to her; she had such an excellent body, until the little slut managed to get herself knocked up.” Red John _knew_ Van Pelt was pregnant? She had thought that no one, aside from herself and Rigsby, knew about what had happened. Lisbon glanced back at Van Pelt; the woman had her head bowed and Lisbon knew that if they were going to get out of there alive, Van Pelt’s suddenly found submissive behavior—after all of the independence and the anger that O’Laughlin’s death had brought her—wouldn’t help them at all. Rigsby remained silent and Lisbon focused her attention back on Jane, ready to tackle the gun from his hand. “The taste of her cunt was nothing like Teresa’s though. Teresa’s never tasted of other men, as Teresa has never been a whore.”

 

She saw something move out of the corner of her eye and she hoped that Rigsby had gone for his gun. Lisbon opened her mouth to say something, when she watched him tilt his head and smirk in Rigsby’s direction.

 

            “Saving the damsels in distress, Agent?” Jane asked. Rigsby said nothing, but Jane’s smirk grew. “Go ahead and pull the trigger, Wayne.” Lisbon saw Jane throw his arms out wide, but she couldn’t grab the gun from his hand without knowing what Jane had planned for them all; and it also wasn’t safe to rush into the situation without knowing if there were more than four people within the room. “But you should keep this in mind. If you pull yours, I will pull mine.” His finger moved to squeeze the trigger and her heart skipped a beat. Jane had pulled many stunts over the years with a gun, but he never tried to pull a stunt with a _loaded_ gun—especially when it was her loaded gun. “And I assure that I do not want to hurt any of you…”

 

            “You son of a bitch!” Jane glanced away from Rigsby and stared at her in surprise, as he brought his arms back to his sides. Lisbon hid her smile of triumph; the more she distracted him, the more chances she had to keep anybody from dying.

 

            “I don’t think I was talking to you, Teresa.” Jane coolly replied. Lisbon met his gaze, deprived from all its usual warmth, and she tried to calm her frantic heart with the reminder that he wasn’t himself.

 

            “Too bad.” She crossed her arms against her chest.

 

Jane lost his smirk. “I don’t think you’re in any place to speak your mind, my dear.” _Keep him calm_ and _do whatever he asks_ , the two most important rules in hostage situations, were the two rules that she had to break to keep them all safe. She knew Jane, she knew how he worked and she knew nothing better would distract him than a good blow to the ego.

 

            “Or you’re just afraid of what I have to say.” Lisbon responded, before Jane raised his eyebrows.

 

            “I’m not afraid of the words provided by the world’s most oblivious and ignorant Senior Agent the CBI has ever had.” Jane said and Lisbon flinched at his words. Whether or not they held any truth to them, his words still stung. “Tell me, _Senior Agent_ Lisbon, how is it that you could spend hours sucking my cock, licking me clean and have absolutely no knowledge of what happens in hours afterwards?”

 

            “What…?”

 

            “Oh, please.” Jane interrupted her with the wave of his gun less hand. “You saw the boxes of sleeping pills within my apartment, Teresa. How many pills were missing from the boxes, hm?” The forensic report had said ten pills taken from the tiny packages by Jane, months apart. Forensics hadn’t been able to narrow down when they had been taken, but she hadn’t been too worried. Jane was an insomniac, after all. “Ten, right?” Lisbon slowly nodded. The report hadn’t been locked away in some obscure location as the Red John case files had been. Red John, like Brenda Shettrick or any other employee within the CBI, could have gotten their hands on the report without so much as a single word. “Then again, maybe that’s why you never noticed. All of those sleeping pills in your system for weeks; a small amount stirred into coffee doesn’t change the taste. It goes undetected.”

 

Lisbon furrowed her brows. Sleeping pills? She had stopped taking sleeping pills after she had joined the police academy, as any type of drug—aside from general pain relievers to keep headaches at bay—affected her ability to do her job properly.

 

            “Your headaches, your memory lapses, the constant amount of anxiety that you felt. How did you not correlate your constant exhaustion to the meals I made for you?” Jane continued, before he sighed. “You really are ignorant, aren’t you? I thought there was more to you than just what you could do with your legs, but I guess I was wrong…”

 

She tried to keep her calm, even though the idea of him drugging her with anything made her want to vomit. After Carmen had drugged her cups of coffee in their weekly sessions, she had confided in Jane that she was weary of anyone buying her drinks. Jane had told her nobody on the unit would drug her; as they all cared about her and none of them had the gall to do it either. Lisbon had taken his word on the basis of trust and in doing so; she had started to allow him to buy her coffee again.

 

_He’s not himself;_ she continued to remind herself, _as_ _Jane would never drug me._

But even she couldn’t be so sure anymore. Jane would have never insulted her or Van Pelt, he would have never stolen her gun without reasonable cause and the Jane she had known would have never betrayed her like this.

 

Hypnotism could never make someone change their moral character and Jane’s was changing left and right.

 

            “You’re Red John.” Lisbon whispered. She could no longer deny the facts. 

 

Jane said nothing for a moment, until he beamed. “ _Very_ good, Teresa. I can see that you’re finally catching up with the class.” Jane had raped Van Pelt. Jane had killed his wife and child. Jane had killed Bosco. “Maybe you’ll learn better judgment of character next time,” he paused, “if there is a next time, of course.” Jane had instructed Hardy to kill her. Red John had been right under her nose, obsessing over himself the entire time, and she hadn’t even seen it. She tried to keep her head held high. She tried to keep herself from falling to the floor. She tried to keep the tears at bay, for the man she had loved had betrayed her and had played them all.

 

            “Why?” Her throat had suddenly become tight with emotion.

 

            “I needed some way to keep you out my way when I had places to be, people to kill,” Jane’s eyes flickered to Van Pelt, “women to rape.” He continued to smile, as he glanced back at her. “The sleeping pills made you compliant, Teresa. You would have thrown out evidence for me if I had asked you too, just because you _loved_ me and you thought I _loved_ you.” Jane snorted and Lisbon bowed her head toward the floor in shame. She had been warned time and time again not to let him cloud her good judgment and she had allowed for him to do just that.

 

_How did I miss so much?_

 

            “Love? You?” She heard him scoff. “Why in the world would I want something so…” Lisbon felt his gaze on the top of her head. “…plain? You were a great fuck, Teresa, but women like you are a dime a dozen.”

 

At his words, she felt something inside of her break.

 

Jane had been playing her the entire time. His odd behavior months ago should have been more of a red flag, but aside from possible health issues, she hadn’t given much thought into it; instead, she had just given into his explanation that his change of behavior had been because he had reconsidered his actions toward them all. _“I’m a changed man, Lisbon.”_ Jane had said and she been a fool to take him at his word.

 

            “I hold all of the cards here, Teresa. You can’t win, unless I allow for you to do so.” Jane said. Lisbon brought her head back up to stare at him again. “You want to save everyone Senior Agent Lisbon; you’ll do exactly what I say.”

 

            “Go to hell, you sick bastard.”

 

Jane’s smile became a smirk. “Very well. I gave you the chance to save your people and you refused, so what I do from here on in is all because of you.” She doubted he would kill any of them without cause. Rigsby still had his gun and if Jane tried anything, she knew Rigsby wouldn’t hesitate to blow his head off. Her stomach knotted again. Jane had been her best friend, regardless of who he was, and the idea of a bullet to his brain made her ill. “You already have so much blood on your hands, my love. You have Samuel Bosco’s, Grace’s, and Kimball’s prostitute friend, and Kimball Cho’s blood on your hands so far. Can you really risk having anymore?”

 

            “Lisbon didn’t kill anyone!” Rigsby cut in. “Cho was…”

 

            “I know, Wayne.” Jane replied. “Who do you think set off the bomb though? I can tell you that it most certainly wasn’t me.” He continued to smirk, as she watched him throw his arms up in the air. “Your fearless leader, who just couldn’t let me unstick the space bar, blew Cho and his prostitute friend to kingdom come.”

 

Lisbon felt her stomach lurch at his words and the back of her throat became overwhelmed with an acidic taste, before the little breakfast she had eaten that morning hit the floor at her feet. She heard Jane laughing over the sounds of her retching; the strong smell of her sickness burned at her nostrils as she glanced away from the colorful mess on the floor to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

            “You see, Wayne, she isn’t vomiting out of the knowledge that I had the bomb placed under his car.” Jane spoke, before Lisbon had the chance to say anything. “She’s vomiting because she knows she played a part in his injury. He’s crippled for the rest of his life and now unable to pee unless he uses a bag, because of her.” Jane shook his head with a laugh. “And you all say _I’m_ cruel. I had Summer shot and Teresa detonated the device before my accomplice could help Cho out.”

 

            “I didn’t…” Lisbon started. She hadn’t known anything about the bomb. She hadn’t meant to kill anymore. She had just thought she was helping Jane and she had grown annoyed with his constant beating on the keyboard. Her lip trembled as she tried to push back the tears and the guilt that gnawed at her stomach again.

 

            “You didn’t what?” Jane asked, almost mockingly. “Know? Mean to? Save the excuses, Teresa. You had your chances to prevent all of this, yet you and your team followed me into the darkness _every time_. If anybody deserves to be shot, it’s you.”

 

He cocked the gun in her direction and she closed her eyes, waiting for the pain.

 

_Truth be told_ , she thought, _I always thought my death would be at the hands of Red John or Jane._

            “However,” Jane continued. “If I used this bullet on you, others might think I reward my _friends_ for their stupidities with death. So no, Teresa. I’m not going to kill you, because the worst,” she heard him approach and she felt his hand on her face, which made her shiver, “is yet to come for you. You’ll lose your job because of this. You’ll lose all of your friends, because you could have stopped this. And when you eventually think about killing yourself, as I’m sure you will, you will see all of the faces of the people you’ve killed. You will also see my face; hear my voice, telling you how much you deserve to suffer.” She felt his hot breath against her ear. “And how better to suffer than to continue living with the guilt of your crimes, hanging around your neck, much like your beloved cross?”

 

Lisbon opened her eyes as she heard him walk away, while her hand brushed idly against her displayed cross.

 

            “If I can’t kill you right now, Teresa. I should kill little Gracie, don’t you think?” Lisbon watched Jane point his gun in the direction of Van Pelt, who remained silent. “Two deaths for the price of one. A mother whore and its demon, cursed with my eyes and her hair.” Jane shook his head slowly. “Do you think I should give her mercy, Teresa? After all, she will think of me _every day_ that she raises her little babe; its little mouth leeching onto her pendant breasts and drinking her milk, much like I drank at her blood.” Lisbon said nothing. “The babe will grow and ask about its father. And what will you tell it, Gracie?” Jane paused, as if he actually expected Van Pelt to answer his question. Van Pelt remained silent. “The truth? That you _deserved_ to be raped with how you spread your legs for Dan, for Wayne, for Craig. Or a lie? Your father died before you were even born…”

 

            “Shut up!” Lisbon interrupted.

 

Jane ignored her. “Will you resent your child for being the devil’s spawn, Grace? Do you sometimes think of it, draining all of your energy from within the womb, and wish that you believed in the concept of abortion or will you become a killer the moment those precious eyes open to a bluish-green mix? If you _do_ kill the poor child, I am sure that you will use your fists, because my fists were used to bruise your skin.

            “You’ll hit and hit and hit, until there’s nothing left to hit. You’ll see the bruises, the blood, you’ll hear the cries and then the silence and all of it will remind you of what I did to you and you will feel relieved, because you will think that you have finally won.” He paused to shake his head again. “But you’ll never win, Grace. I’ll be in your dreams, haunting you no matter where you go. I’ll be the touch you strive to remember and the touch you strive to forget, as you try and wash me away with hours under the scolding hot water. I’ll be the reason why no man will ever want you, because who in their right mind would want the sloppy seconds of a _rapist_?”

 

Behind her, she heard Van Pelt start to sob. Lisbon wanted to turn around and wrap her arms around the young woman, who hadn’t needed to hear any of that, but Jane spoke again before she could.

 

            “So, no Teresa.” Jane repeated over Van Pelt’s heart wrenching sobs and Lisbon wanted to kill him. “I’m not going to kill Grace, because she’ll be living with the consequences of her actions for years to come.” She watched him point his gun at the floor. “I’ll be surprised if the cunt makes it past her pregnancy, to be honest. Grace always was the weak link within our little family...”

 

            “You don’t know anything!” Lisbon stated and she watched Jane roll his eyes. Yes, the comeback had been rather weak, but her thoughts were everywhere and she had no clue of what to even say.

 

            “I know enough, Teresa.” Jane replied. “It’s what happens when you work with the same individuals for years. Whether you realize it or not, Craig went to Grace because she was _easy_. Grace has always believed in the fairytale ending, Teresa.” He scowled. “But you and I _know_ that this isn’t a fairytale, don’t we? You know the good guy doesn’t always win, the heroines don’t always get rescued from their towers.” Jane cocked the gun in her direction again. “And sometimes,” he moved the gun slightly to the right, “the hero gets killed for trying to do the right thing.”

 

Lisbon watched in horror as Jane pulled the trigger. The gun fired, the shot echoed loudly within the echoing room, and in the next moment, her clothes and face were covered in a mess of blood and brain matter. Before she could blink the red from her vision, she heard something heavy hit the floor.

 

_Rigsby!_ Her mind screamed.

 

She spun on her heels and glanced down at the floor, only to find Rigsby lying face down on the gray concrete floor; scarlet pooled under his face, around his body and stained the new suit that Rigsby had mentioned being able to _finally_ afford yesterday morning. Lisbon pushed back her tears at the sight of the young father on the floor. Rigsby hadn’t done anything to deserve a bullet to the face. Rigsby had done nothing to Red John.

 

Jane had simply killed him, because of her and her refusal to comply.

 

            “You see, Teresa. If you had just _agreed_ to do exactly what I had said; Agent Rigsby would still have a face and Benjamin would still have father.” Jane said. “Whatever will you tell Ms. Harrigan, Teresa? You killed her boyfriend. She’s a single mother now, who works a fulltime job.” Lisbon forced her eyes away from Rigsby’s body to glance back at Jane, who pointed the gun at her once more. “You don’t think she’ll hate you?”

 

Lisbon didn’t want to listen to him anymore. She had lost another member of her team to Red John and the more he spoke, the more she felt the need to cry. “What’s your plan?” 

 

            “I’m so glad you asked!” Jane replied with a bright smile. “But for the next few minutes, everything I do involves your eyes.” Lisbon blinked and her blurry vision cleared. Hadn’t she and Van Pelt seen enough already? Jane’s eyes flickered toward Van Pelt and Lisbon felt her heart stop. “Do you see my chair over there, Teresa?” Lisbon nodded; it had been the chair she had stupidly untied him from, without seeing all of the facts first. “Go over, drag it a little closer, sit down and look at me. If you move or say anything after you sit down at all, however, I will put a bullet through Grace’s head also.” As if he had to prove his threat, he cocked the gun in Van Pelt’s direction and she saw his finger ready to pull the trigger.

 

Quickly, she did as he had requested. The chair moved, until Jane motioned for her to sit down and she sat down with her arms crossed against her chest. She watched Jane move to stand in front of Rigsby’s body, before he nodded to her and Lisbon took a deep breath; nobody else would die, as long as she didn’t move her head or speak a word at whatever Jane was planning to do.

 

            “Come here, my pet.” Lisbon heard Jane say, as he beckoned Van Pelt to come to him with a single finger. Van Pelt moved to him, until they both stood across from each other; Jane’s hands grabbed onto Van Pelt’s shoulders and pushed the young woman to her knees, before he glanced in her direction. “Remember Teresa. If you look away, move from that spot, or say one word; I’ll blow her pretty little head off.” Lisbon nodded and Jane glanced back down at Van Pelt, who once again, stared at the floor. She watched his mouth move and Van Pelt’s mouth open, as her head lifted and her fingers went for both the waistband and the zipper of his pants.

 

_He wouldn’t,_ Lisbon thought.

 

She continued to watch Van Pelt pull Jane’s dark pants and boxers down to his ankles; between his legs hung his manhood, which Van Pelt slowly took in her hands and in-between her lips.

 

            “Fuck me with your tongue.” She heard Jane order Van Pelt, as the gun was pressed against the top of Van Pelt’s red hair. Lisbon bit her lip to keep quiet. What Jane— _Red John_ , she corrected herself—was doing, was wrong. Van Pelt had gone through quite enough and by making her a _willing_ participant, he was making her relieve the situation again and again within her own mind. She didn’t want to watch the scene before her, but the way Van Pelt’s head bobbed up and down as she sucked him dry within her mouth made her stare in transfixed horror.

 

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God._

 

Lisbon tasted her own blood, felt liquid pool between her thighs while heat rushed through her body, as she fought against her need to fidget. Jane had his head thrown backwards as she watched Jane fuck Van Pelt’s mouth with his body. The muscles in his legs quivered and she couldn’t help but imagine herself in the same position; Jane’s magnificent length in her mouth, the salty taste of his cum on her tongue, his hands buried in her hair, the dirty words he whispered in her ear…

 

_This is wrong!_ Her thoughts screamed, as she continued to watch and wet her underwear out of arousal. Jane pulled the gun from atop Van Pelt’s head and removed himself from her mouth, before he put his hand to the side of her head and shoved hard. She fell to the side without a sound, as her body landed in the slick mess of Rigsby’s blood and body; Van Pelt’s screams echoed around the room, until Jane silenced her with a swift kick to the head.

 

Jane glanced down at himself first, before he turned his head to stare at her with a smile and her gun still in his hand.

 

            “I apologize for this.” Jane gestured toward his fully-erect penis. “The screams from my victims always make me feel the need to masturbate.” She watched him run one of his hands down himself. “I hope you understand my need to take care of this, before we continue on.” Jane sat his gun down on the floor and Lisbon tried to force herself to move, but she just couldn’t.  Mesmerized, she watched as he brought both of his hands to his lips and licked the palms of his hands wet. She also watched as he brought his hands back down to wrap around his penis, before he started to rub his hands together. The scene before her eyes made her shift slightly; the pleasure written all across his face made her feel something that she had no business feeling, as Jane had just killed one of her people.

 

Low grunts filled the room and Lisbon continued to watch him work his way to an orgasm, until finally Jane’s hands became coated with his own semen and he dropped his dripping length to hang back between his legs.

 

            “Much better.” Jane told her in a sigh, while he bent back down to grab at her gun with his cum-coated fingers. “Now, where were we Teresa?”

 

In the chair, she shifted again and tried to keep her arousal hidden from him; but the wide smile across his face told her he already knew why she couldn’t sit still.

 

            “You look a little hot and bothered there, Teresa. Is something wrong?”

 

            “No.” Lisbon lied.

 

            “You’re a terrible liar, Teresa.” Jane answered with a shake of his head. “You can’t keep still, your breathing is heavy and your face is red.” Lisbon cursed her body silently. “You should be ashamed of feeling aroused at the act your poor Grace just went through. She’s pregnant and I made her go down on her knees.” Jane chuckled. “You say I’m the sick bastard, my dear, but you’re the one who has wet themselves in pleasure at such a _horrific_ act. Have you no shame, Teresa?”

 

Shame filled her again. Red John or not, Jane was right. Lisbon glanced down at the floor in humiliation; she should have grabbed the gun, she should have never brought Rigsby or Van Pelt with her. She heard Jane’s footsteps, before she felt his warm hand touch her chin and lift it gently; her eyes met his bluish-green eyes and for a moment, she could have sworn that the familiar spark of warmth was back.

 

            “Hush, Teresa. I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t. It’ll be our little secret.” He pressed one of his fingers against her lips. “Why don’t you help me clean up, my love? I’m awfully sticky and you’re awfully…” His lips twitched. “…stimulated.” She opened her mouth to tell him to go away, when he inserted his finger into her mouth. “Help me, Teresa. Or I will kill Grace. Remember, I still have your gun.” She felt the barrel of the gun against her head and she moved her tongue against his finger, until he pulled it from her mouth moments later. “Now, you’ll take off all of your clothes and the rest of mine. I would hate to leave you without having a little bit of fun.”

 

She stood from her chair and with shaky fingers, she had them both undressed in a matter of seconds.

 

She felt Jane’s hand brush against her bare breasts, before he spoke again. “You should lie on the ground, Teresa. I don’t want to hurt you.” With a half nod, Lisbon moved to rest her body against the cold concrete ground and Jane followed her; she heard the sound of her gun being slid across the floor. He said nothing, as she felt him shove her legs apart, settle himself on top of her with his hands holding her arms down, before he drove himself into her; his self-lubricated arousal was without a condom and every thrust he delivered into her made her body jerk violently on the floor. “Oh, my. You really _are_ wet, aren’t you?” She heard him whisper into her ear and she forced the breath from her lungs. “And tight, Teresa. So very tight. You obviously haven’t been a bad girl while I’ve been gone, have you?”

 

She fought against her blush; aside from her fingers in the beginning of his absence, she had done nothing to relieve her sexual frustrations. Silence fell around them both and Lisbon closed her eyes, as she tried to pretend that they weren’t on the floor of an old warehouse as she continued to feel him thrust into her.

 

            “Tell me what you want, Teresa.” She heard him whisper into her ear again.

 

_To kill you_ , she thought as she imagined emptying all of the bullets from her gun into his chest, _I want to kill you._

 

            “Do you want to climax, Teresa? Do you want relief from the sexual itch that I left you with?” She said nothing. She wasn’t going to play his game. She wasn’t going to give into him. “Don’t be shy, Teresa. I can feel how close you are to coming and I only want to give you what you truly desire.”

 

She felt him increase his rhythm against her and before she could do anything in response, she felt him pull himself out of her. Lisbon writhed against the cold floor out of need; the bastard still held tightly to her arms and she couldn’t even use her fingers to relieve the deep burning urge within her.

 

            “I asked what you wanted and you said nothing.” Jane told her. Lisbon narrowed her eyes as she tried to escape from his grasp. “I’m going to move now. If your hands or body move, I will be back with your gun before you can pleasure yourself. Think of how humiliating it would be to die with your entire hand inside of you, Teresa. The CBI wouldn’t know what to think.”

 

Jane pulled away from her and Lisbon bit her tender lip to keep still. She heard his footsteps, but she couldn’t see where he was going. She tried to ignore the heat; she tried to focus on cool thoughts but the itching between her legs made it almost impossible to focus on anything else.

 

_Where is he going?_ She wondered.

 

Lisbon heard his footsteps again, before she felt his hands on her breasts; his hands were wet with something, but she ignored the coolness to stare up at him. Jane continued to smile as she felt him pinch her nipples and trail his fingers down her stomach, until eventually; she felt his fingers dance between her thighs.

 

She moaned, lowly. His fingers felt so good near her inner heat; so cool and soft…

 

            “Tsk. Tsk. Teresa.” Jane replied. “I don’t think you want my fingers to fuck you right now…”

 

Lisbon couldn’t take any more of his torture, regardless of what he _wanted_ and what he _didn’t_. She needed him, immediately; she arched off the ground, toward his exploring fingers and Jane chuckled, before she felt him sink his fingers into her. Hard, he rubbed at her insides and she let out a second low moan. He was so good.

 

            “Tell me what else you need, Teresa.” Jane whispered and she stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Or I’ll stop.”

 

Her thoughts were such a mess. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to arrest him. She wanted him inside of her again. She wanted him to keep rubbing, to keep helping her fix her itch. Above all else, she just wanted _him_ even though she knew it was wrong. Her body craved his touch and his rubbing only made it that much harder to say anything other than _you_.

 

            “You, Patrick, I need you.”

 

Jane shook his head with a sad laugh. “You can’t have me, Teresa, because I _own_ you.” She felt him remove his fingers from her and she mewed lightly; so close to bursting, so close to throwing herself over the edge. “We can’t own each other, my dear; it just doesn’t work that way.” Lisbon watched him stand; she saw the small smile on his face, his penis between his legs, before she caught sight of his hands which had been stained red. “I will forever remember this moment, Teresa. You below me, covered in the blood of someone you killed. ” His small smile became a smirk, even in her blurry vision. “You’ll be able to get the blood off you, Teresa, as it isn’t permanent. But let it serve as a warning; anyone foolish enough to fall in love with a serial killer deserves a punishment worse than being unable to relieve one’s sexual urges.” He leaned down again and she felt him brush his hand against her cheek. “One day, I’ll be back to give you _and_ Grace what you both deserve. Because like Grace, you’ll never be free of me.” 

 

Lisbon stared up at Jane and he stared down at her.

 

            “Goodbye, Teresa.”

 

His echoing footsteps and another deafening shot of the gun curbed her need to cry, as she needed to know if Van Pelt was okay. Naked and in shame, Lisbon moved from the blood stained concrete floor and knew that she had no right to cry; she deserved _everything_ that the CBI, that Sarah Harrigan, that Van Pelt would throw at her, just because her tiny infraction of sleeping with Jane, of having a relationship with a fellow CBI employee, had cost them all more than she had ever truly anticipated.

 

_Jane was right_ , Lisbon realized with a lurch as she stood still, _I really am the world’s most oblivious and ignorant Senior Agent_.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**17—**

In the bright light of his study, Red John eyed the small television on his bare desk with a grimace. The California Bureau of Investigation, after he had left them all in a hasty exit, had been rather uninspiring and dull to spy on. Agent Darcy had confined Teresa to her office after she and Grace had come back to the CBI without Rigsby and aside from leaving for the day and bathroom breaks, poor Teresa was a prisoner.

 

From the little sound waves of poor quality audio he had caught in the weeks after his departure, he had learned that the CBI was trying to control the backlash from the community by allowing Teresa to keep her title. Of course, _Senior Agent_ Teresa Lisbon wasn’t out solving crimes; they were using the little lamb to tempt the tiger.

 

He had found their _plan_ to be both facetious and foolish for a few reasons. The first, Red John had been finished with Teresa for months; he had destroyed her team, her heart, her career and her credibility. No one would trust or listen to a woman, who had willingly slept and employed a serial killer.

 

The second, Red John had also finished with Grace months ago; he had used her body, taught her how to keep those whore legs of hers closed and if he was lucky, he had also ruined her life. No one within Wainwright’s office had discussed Grace, but he had caught of the overly pregnant Grace from his television screen once or twice and he had wondered if the last image she had of Rigsby haunted her every waking moment.

 

The last reason? Their _idea_ that he would come back to finish off either Teresa or Grace was rooted out of the basic concept that serial killers had patterns, which most did. They picked the same type of victim, the same time to commit their crimes: day or night, the same weapon over and over again until the small facts became entwined with who the serial killer was.

 

He, for example, was known for killing women. He painted walls for the longest time in the blood of women and innocents.

 

But even serial killers broke pattern. 

 

Over the course of fifteen years, he had broken several and each new pattern—broken and unchained—had filled him with a sense of adrenaline that the blood of virgins on white walls could never bring him.

 

The bomb for Kimball Cho.

The rape of Grace Van Pelt.

 

Both changes in pattern had been meant to teach the Serious Crimes Unit a lesson, as the group of five—now, down to one—had all continued to follow Patrick Jane down the rabbit hole, even after Patrick had no longer been Patrick Jane.

 

Red John smirked. Unwillingly, both Teresa and Patrick had become martyrs to their own causes. If they both had just listened, had just paid attention to the signs he had left for them both to follow, he wouldn’t have destroyed the lives of countless individuals who they both had touched along the path of trying to catch their biggest demon—him.

 

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions_ , he thought.

 

And by trying to catch him, they had paved their own golden roads with more good intentions than anything else. Teresa, who had wanted to save Patrick from himself and from the iron clad bars of a prison cell and Patrick, who had wanted to keep Teresa safe and get his revenge at the same time. It truly was a fitting end for the workaholic and the vengeful. Both of them, so driven and so ignorant of other person’s desires, had somehow ended up paving the same road twice; they had both collided into each other without even knowing and they would both go down together too.

 

            “Sir,” Thomas’ voice interrupted his musing. “It’s time.” Red John glanced away from the small screen and focused his attention on the youthful accomplice, who seemed weary. He sent the man a mirthless smile, before he stood from his desk and turned the television off again. Red John said nothing to Thomas, as he allowed for the dark-haired accomplice to take the lead.

 

Thomas led him through the halls of the hideout and Red John tried to keep his facial expression blank, but it was hard to do whilst still being in the body of Patrick Jane.

 

So, Red John continued to smirk. From the moment he had left Teresa—naked and covered in the blood of Wayne Rigsby—he had continued to stay on within Patrick’s body; he hadn’t planned it like that, but there were certain things beyond his control. Patrick, for instance, hadn’t been ready for the swap back months ago, as the man’s mental state had apparently been barbaric and Thomas had feared everlasting brain damage.

 

He had also been waiting for the best moment to swap bodies back with Patrick too.  With the FBI searching for Patrick and every local law enforcement agency thirsting for the reward money his blood would bring them—$500,000—Red John had decided to wait and see what the _premiere_ law enforcement agency in Sacramento did.

 

Red John only had to wait three months and sixteen days for the Director of the CBI to play his predictable hand of cards; Gale Bertram with the assistance of Osvaldo Ardiles had pushed to formally bring a case against Teresa. He had listened to the four fools within Wainwright’s office—Gale Bertram, Susan Darcy, Luther Wainwright and Osvaldo Ardiles—discussing the idea of allowing for Teresa to be given a certain amount of rope to hang herself with.

 

The amount of predictability had made him laugh. The CBI was only out to protect themselves and their image, not listen or pay attention to what Teresa had done for them in the past. Of course, their predictability had made sure that Teresa could no longer hide behind a shiny badge or the title that her job had provided her with.

 

But above all else, their predictabilities had helped him choose when to swap back with Patrick. He hadn’t wanted Teresa in jail and if releasing Patrick back into the den of wolves in sheep clothing would keep her from an orange jumpsuit and the death penalty, he would do it.

 

            “He’s already out, sir.” Thomas spoke again and Red John nodded, before they both stepped into the large room that had once served as a mortuary. He quickly glanced around the room; the silver instruments still shone brightly in the lights, the bright red blood of animals still stained the floor in spots, and his body remained on the silver autopsy table in the center of the vented room.

 

His body had been clothed, a dark shirt and dark pants, his wrists and waist had been encircled with tight leather restraints, wires remained strung from almost every bare inch of skin, and a dark tourniquet had already been fixed around the arm. The odd sight filled him with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia; being in Patrick’s body for over six months had been like being on vacation—the different sights were lovely, the new smells were pleasant, the people were entertaining, but he preferred home better.

 

He had missed his body, black mask and all.

 

Red John scanned every inch of uncovered skin, making note of every blemish and bruise from a distance. The swapping back procedure would wipe them all away and he wouldn’t remember any of the marks come morning, but it was something he still felt the need to do.

 

His gaze, however, stopped at the familiar mask he had worn for fourteen years. Around his accomplices, he had never once taken it off; taking it off would have been too risky as his accomplices could turn on him at any moment and aside from Rosalind Harker, he had never allowed for another woman to touch his bare face.

 

Thomas had once asked him about the mask. Red John remembered that he had glanced at the young man, simply smiled and replied: _“The mask is the core of my identity, Nathaniel. Without it, I am nothing.”_ He had his bleeding smiley face and he had his face, but while people quickly forgot faces—it didn’t matter if one had brown hair or blonde hair, blue eyes or green eyes, pale skin or dark skin, as common features faded into one giant blur at the end of the day—they would never forget a man behind a mask.

 

Red John stepped closer to his unconscious body and ran his finger over the soft mask. He heard Thomas moving behind him and he closed his eyes for a moment.

 

_After this_ , he thought still with a smile, _I will no longer need it_.

 

The concept of freedom was something everybody strived for, he had learned that many years ago, but it was also something very few could obtain. And for him, all it had taken was a flip of a switch and a few months of patience.

 

Nobody was looking for the faceless Red John anymore; they were all looking for Patrick Jane, a man who had only been thrown into the shadows because he had been beaten at his own game.

 

            “Sir.” Thomas spoke again. Red John turned on his heels to find Thomas, who stood behind him with a syringe in his hand. He continued to smile as he allowed for the accomplice to silently lead him to the second autopsy table and tie a tourniquet tightly around the nook of his inner elbow. “Are you ready?”

 

            “Yes.” Red John replied without hesitation and Thomas placed the needle against his skin, just against one of his blue veins, when he continued to speak. “I want you to insert the needle, dress me with the wires, start the machine and then close your eyes.” Thomas nodded.

 

Red John felt the sharp needle sink into his arm; watched the liquid leave the clear syringe and allowed for Thomas to take the needle away. He felt the wires being draped across his skin, as he tried to fight against the coming darkness for a few more moments.

 

Thomas stepped away from the table, started the machine in viewing distance with the press of a finger, before he closed his eyes and waited for the next order from his _master_.

 

But the order would never come, not in this lifetime or the next.

 

As the last thing Red John heard, before everything faded into the blackness, was Nathaniel Thomas’s body hitting the floor. 


	18. Chapter 18

**18** —

 

Patrick Jane awoke to a blinding light and a splitting headache, before he threw one of his arms over his eyes and tried to calm the queasiness building in his stomach with a few deep breaths through his mouth. He tried to remember the last time he had been ill with some type of stomach flu; Charlotte had been ill and he had caught it from her, much to the amusement of Angela. Tea had been one of the few things that had kept his threshold for illnesses high before Charlotte had been born, even though illnesses from children apparently crept through the cracks.

 

After a few moments of deep breathing and darkness provided by his resting arm, he realized that the headache and the nausea probably weren’t related to a stomach bug but more along the lines of a dreaded migraine. Not that he had ever experienced the pain of a migraine before, of course, he had just heard Lisbon complaining about them; and from what she had said (and had done to him during one of hers), they really hadn’t sounded like much fun.

 

Slowly, Jane removed his arm from across his eyes and took a light sniff of the air around him. He half-expected to be greeted by the overwhelming smell of antiseptic, but instead his nose caught a whiff of freshly drying paint and he opened his eyes. The room was still bright and with a few blinks to readjust himself to the brightness, he could see once again.

 

_I’m obviously not in a hospital,_ Jane thought, as hospitals tended to reek of antiseptic, mothballs and old women. He also apparently wasn’t anywhere near a doctor, as he didn’t have that creepy crawly feeling that doctors _usually_ gave him with the way they all enjoyed breathing down the necks of their patients.

 

And unless Lisbon had finally decided to paint over Elvis, which Jane highly doubted as Wainwright would have never given Lisbon the permission to _deface public property_ , he realized that he probably wasn’t on his couch within the Serious Crimes Unit bullpen either.

 

This left him wondering where in the world he could be.

 

The last thing Jane remembered was being in the Child’s family home with Lisbon, watching as Amy Child’s pressed the gun against her chin and had pulled the trigger to end her life. He hadn’t thought (or felt anything to suggest otherwise) that he had been hurt, but why else would he be on the ground if something hadn’t happened to him or Lisbon.

 

Jane sat up, almost immediately at the thought of Lisbon being hurt. She had gone through enough in the past year or so—O’Laughlin shooting her, her almost losing her job, and Red John making her a target in his games also (even if Lisbon didn’t realize it just yet)—that he would mentally kick himself if anything else had happened to her, especially after he had promised that he would always be there to save her. Jane glanced around the area, hoping that he wouldn’t find her and to his relief, she was nowhere within the spacious room or small foyer.

 

The room did, however, look familiar; the ceiling was white and patterned with flowers, heavy yellow curtains covered the lone two windows in the room, and the carpet was a fiery red. The room, he sat inches from, had been the room where Amy had pulled the trigger of her gun to end her life.

 

Of course, none of it had looked as it had hours (or minutes, as he still wasn’t too sure of how long he had been just lying there on the floor) ago. Everything looked clean of the blood, tissue and brain matter that Amy had left behind with her single bullet.

 

            “Lisbon?” Jane called out into the quiet house, just in case Lisbon was lingering nearby. He waited for a few seconds to see if anybody would show up, whether it was the Child’s family berating him for still being in their home or Lisbon coming to greet him with the shake of her head. But no one came and he attempted to call out again. “Hello? Anybody home?” Once again, he received no answer and with a low sigh, he pushed himself off the carpeted floor and forced himself to stand through the headache.

 

On his feet, Jane’s legs wobbled dangerously beneath him and he latched onto the wooden banister of the staircase next to him to keep himself from falling until he could move without feeling as if the entire world was slanted. Eventually, after his headache had faded slightly and he could move, he let go of the wooden banister and climbed the red carpet stairs in an attempt to find somebody within the home.

 

He called out again. “Hello?” He was met was silence and with a shrug, he continued up the steps. The quietness within the home was eerie, as was the collection of dust and cobwebs hanging on the white walls surrounding him while he continued to take the steps one at a time. Before long, Jane found himself facing an empty hallway and several doors; the long hallway had probably once seen better days, but he avoided the dark area in favor of stepping into the first room he opened with his hand.

 

Beyond the door, Jane could tell that he was looking into someone’s well lit bedroom; the four-post bed with its dark pink sheets, the fading posters of pink-lipped boy bands plastered to the baby blue walls, two front-facing windows covered by thin white lace curtains with an oak desk underneath.  The elder Child’s would have never tolerated the light blue paint on their walls or the frilly curtains in their bedroom as the two, from Jane’s first and last impression of them both and from the items within their home, only appreciated items that showed how well off they were to the world.

 

But, of course, they weren’t well off at all.

 

The Child’s family had been hit hard in the recession and the dysfunctional family, whether the daughters had known it or not, had been about to lose their childhood home. Van Pelt had been the one to discover the possible financial motive in Alice’s death, as the young college student had paid for a one-hundred-thousand dollar insurance policy two weeks prior to her death; that much money would have allowed for the parents of the family to go back to their drinking, gambling and smoking lifestyles.

 

And as Amy Child didn’t have a room to paint, the bedroom had to belong to the late Alice Child.

 

Jane frowned. By leaving him there, was Lisbon hoping that he would find something in the girl’s belongings that would point them all toward her killer? He almost laughed at the silly thought. Lisbon should have realized that Alice’s bedroom held nothing but the bare clues of a young spoiled woman turned college student, who had held more dreams than her fellow peers probably had.

 

He wondered further into the bedroom and stopped to stare at the white bookshelf on the left. Had Lisbon left him out of anger? She often did that just to teach him some lesson in respect and after his treatment toward Darcy and Wainwright, leaving him behind, to her, seemed like an excellent punishment.

 

_I wonder if she realizes that the lesson isn’t nearly as effective,_ Jane thought with a chuckle, _if I have no idea what she’s trying to teach._

 

Jane shook his head, before he focused on the bookshelf. He’d worry about Lisbon later, as he had a case that needed to be solved first.

 

The white, three-shelf bookcase held various items of importance. On the middle shelf remained book after book of first edition plays from Shakespeare’s _“King Lear”_ to Arthur Miller’s _“The Crucible”_. Alice’s parents had apparently put much of their money into their daughter’s future career by purchasing high-edition plays with the money that would have helped them keep their home and that would have helped their eldest daughter out of her pile of debt that she had into.

 

Alice would have made into stardom, even without the high-price singing lessons and the fitness classes to make her more “desirable”, as the young woman had been extremely talented and gifted. Jane only knew that though, because the family had forwarded videos of the budding actress to the CBI from her first college play: _“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”_ by Edward Albee, where she had played Honey. 

 

The bottom shelf of the bookcase held one-eyed stuffed animals and he smiled briefly, before he glanced at the top shelf; almost every child had a collection of beloved toys from childhood, after all. The top shelf held a single, overturned photo frame surrounded by a collection of various dolls. Forensics be damned, he grabbed at the frame out of curiosity and brought it off the dusty shelf.

 

Someone had cracked the silver frame, engraved with the phrase: _Tremens factus sum ego, et tímeo_ , at the bottom. Jane knew it was written in Latin, but he couldn’t read the phrase aside from the few words he had picked up from reading Shakespeare. That same person had also decided to shatter the glass within the frame and whatever picture had been inside was missing.

 

Jane put the frame back on the shelf, before he searched his pockets for his cell phone to call Lisbon about the possible robbery of the Child’s home, when he realized that calling her wasn’t the best idea. If she _was_ mad at him, what were the chances of her answering the call? He shook his head again, as he felt one of his car keys. Lisbon could be ridiculous without even trying, some days.

 

He heard the sound of his car keys jingling together first, not that they were of much help though as he had left his vehicle at work in favor of letting Lisbon drive, before he felt the smooth plastic of his phone. Jane sighed in relief, as he pulled his phone out.

 

            “At least Lisbon didn’t take my phone.” Jane muttered. He knew he had to tell Lisbon about the possible robbery and the only way he could do that (without getting a lecture or an earful), was to show up at the CBI without letting Lisbon or anybody else on the unit know. He glanced down at his phone again and dialed _411_.

 

_Hopefully, I can find or get a taxi out here_ , Jane thought as he waited for the operator to answer his call, _otherwise, I’m going to be walking an hour and thirty or so to get back to the CBI._

* * *

Jane tipped the taxi driver graciously, even though the driver with a horrible comb over didn’t exactly deserve it, as he exited the taxi cab almost a block away from the CBI in the dead of night. If the crabby driver had thought dropping him off near an alleyway was odd, the man never said a word as he drove away with a crisp $100 bill in his grubby hands.

 

The bright streetlights above guided him from the vacant alleyway, past the old donut shop displaying a _help wanted_ sign in the window, to the back alleyway behind the CBI, where he knew he could slip into the building without any problems. The cool night air against his face kept him alert as he pushed himself into the CBI, through a side door with a muffled groan. He hated using the back door to enter into the CBI, because it led straight to the boiler room, which maintenance kept constantly at a sweltering hot temperature. But it was the only way he could get into the building, without going through the front door and possibly alerting Lisbon to his presence.

 

Jane moved through the large room with relative ease, until he met the door leading from the boiler room to the first floor of the CBI. It was a little harder to open, but eventually, he managed to shove the door open with his shoulder; nobody was lingering around, much to his surprise. Even at the oddest hours of the morning, one of the guards was always patrolling the first floor, especially as the first floor was where the main entrance was.

 

In silence, he found the door to the steps and hurried to the third floor. Jane briefly wondered if Lisbon or any of the team was still around, as he approached the bullpen and Lisbon’s office from the back. If they weren’t around, he’d just lie on the couch and wait for any of them to show up so he could tell them about his theory for Alice’s death; after all, Lisbon did like coming into work early.

 

His eyes caught the bullpen and Lisbon’s office; both of them were lit just enough and he smiled. Lisbon was apparently burning the midnight oil, and so was Grace apparently! He could make out her red hair from a distance and the familiar sight calmed his nerves. Rigsby or Cho wouldn’t have known anything about Lisbon’s mood (or if they had known, Cho wouldn’t answer and Rigsby would make some invalid excuse to get out of answering the highly personal question), but Grace had always somehow known when Lisbon was angry or upset with him.

 

With his mind made up, Jane decided to talk to Grace first; if Lisbon was beyond angry with him for whatever he had done, he wouldn’t pester the woman anymore until after he had brought her a cup of coffee. _But_ , if Lisbon was just irritated with him, he could step into her office and probably keep all of his fingers and toes by the end of the meeting with her. Quietly, he entered into the bullpen as he didn’t want to startle Grace, who probably thought she was alone, or make Lisbon leave her office.

 

            “Grace.” Jane greeted, brightly, as he put his hand to her shoulder and he continued to smile. He felt her tense and if Lisbon’s anger had everybody on edge. “Do you know if Lisbon is…” Jane trailed off at the sight of an extremely pregnant Grace Van Pelt in a long-sleeved blue turtleneck sweater and her gun pointed directly at him. “Whoa, Grace! I’m happy to see myself too, but I didn’t think we were supposed to bring guns to the party.”

 

            “Agent Darcy!” Van Pelt called at the top of her lungs. The young agent sounded _frightened_ and he wondered what had her so spooked. Jane hadn’t brought anybody into the CBI with him and unless a ghost stood behind them both (though, there were no such things as ghosts), Grace was calling both agents into the room about _him_. “Agent Wainwright!” Her brown eyes were open wide and by the way she held her gun, Jane could just see how exhausted she truly was.

 

            “You don’t need to call them, Grace.” Jane replied, as he took a step backwards. Even after shooting two people, he and guns still didn’t along very well and with the way Grace was aiming hers at him, he was afraid she was going to shoot. “I found my way back to the CBI, see?” He threw his arms out and her finger went to the trigger. “When was the last time you had any sleep, Grace? You’re clearly exhausted and the lack of sleep does silly things to the mind. Like, I don’t know, make you hold your gun to your _friend_.” Grace said nothing, but he watched her move closer with her gun.

 

_What in the world is going on_ , Jane thought, as his ears filled with the sounds of loud footsteps against the wooden floor.

 

Jane continued to stare at Grace, who obviously wasn’t going to set her gun down. The last time he had seen her, she hadn’t even been pregnant _or_ seeing anybody, yet the woman looked to be seven months along in her pregnancy? He tried to not look confused, but things just weren’t adding up inside his head; it could have been the exhaustion (or the minor headache) speaking to him, though he highly doubted it.

 

It wasn’t actually possible to go from zero to seven months pregnant in a matter of days, unless Grace had been hiding it _extremely_ well. And even if she had been hiding it with large tops and only going to the bathroom when he wasn’t around, he would have figured it out within days; pregnancy changed the body in many ways, as he remembered from when Angela had been pregnant with Charlotte.

 

            “Patrick Jane.” He heard Darcy’s voice somewhere beyond Grace and he peered over her shoulder to find Darcy and Wainwright, both of them had their guns leveled on him as well. Jane tried to ignore the gun-happy FBI and CBI agents with an uneasy smile as he caught sight of Lisbon, who stood behind them. She was the only person in the room, who didn’t have their gun trained on him.

 

_At least she’s on my side_ , Jane sighed in mental relief, while he aimed his smile at her and she bowed her head.

 

            “You know, Lisbon.” Jane said. “This really isn’t how you should greet people. The CBI might start getting a bad reputation for greeting their guests with firearms and bullets.”

 

Lisbon didn’t glance up at him. She didn’t even _smile_ at his crack, which would have usually gotten the woman going on some tirade about how the CBI wasn’t all about firearms and bullets. Jane relied on gut instinct and his gut, right now, was telling him that there was something definitely wrong with this picture. But he ignored it; when it came to Lisbon, Jane had learned that his gut instinct could sometimes be wrong, especially when she was in one of her vengeful moods.

 

            “Come on, Lisbon.” Jane continued with a playful smile. “You can’t be that mad at me. I know I’ve said and done some hurtful things, but…”

 

            “You’re under arrest, Mr. Jane.” Wainwright interrupted and Jane stared at him in surprise. Was Wainwright being serious? The childlike Agent had never seemed to have a joking bone in his body, but he couldn’t be serious…could he? Jane saw Darcy move out of the corner of his vision, before he felt her hands on his lower arms. He almost laughed. Lisbon really was getting him back for something, wasn’t she? “You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Jane. Anything you say or can do will…” 

 

            “I’m under _arrest_?” Jane felt Darcy’s silver handcuffs against his wrists. “This isn’t some kind of a joke?”

 

            “I’m afraid not, Mr. Jane.” Darcy replied.

 

            “…be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…” Wainwright continued.

 

Jane struggled against Darcy’s strong hold. “For what?” If the charges weren’t something serious, Lisbon would have never allowed for Darcy to handcuff him, let alone Wainwright read the Miranda warnings to him. “I have a right to know!”

 

            “…Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?” Wainwright finished and Jane looked at him. “Answer the question, Mr. Jane.”

 

            “I’ve heard them over and over again, _Agent_.” Jane replied. “But you have yet to answer my question!” He glanced between Wainwright and Grace, who had yet to lower their weapons. “What did I do to have my so-called _rights_ read to me?” He really was beyond confused. He hadn’t broken into the Child’s home (Lisbon _had_ left him there) and he hadn’t shot Timothy Carter again. He had just stepped into the CBI!

 

            “You’re being arrested for the murder of Wayne Rigsby, Summer Edgecombe, and countless others.” Darcy said from behind him. Jane threw his head over his shoulder to glance at her in question. He hadn’t killed Rigsby! He hadn’t killed anyone, except for Timothy Carter, and he had talked himself out of those charges almost a year ago! “You’re also being arrested for the attempted murder of Kimball Cho and the rape of Grace Van Pelt.”

 

            “The rape of _who_?” Jane turned his head back to stare at Grace, who stared at the floor. He stared at her in surprise. Why would she even make up such a fabricated tale? “I haven’t done anything to anyone! Sure, I’ve annoyed Lisbon…but my annoyingness isn’t a crime, is it?” Nobody said anything and Jane continued on, his entire focus still on Grace. “Grace? Tell them I haven’t raped you.” 

 

            “Stop talking to her.” Wainwright ordered.

 

            “I’ll stop talking to her when you stop talking to me, little boy.” Jane snapped back. Wainwright said nothing. “Grace. _Please_. I didn’t do this!” Grace said nothing again and Jane tried to break from Darcy’s grasp. “You have to believe me! I wouldn’t do this to you, we’re friends!”

 

            “Shut up, Mr. Jane.” Darcy warned and Jane ignored her, as he turned his attention to Lisbon.

 

            “What are you playing at, Lisbon?” Jane asked her, out of anger. “I’ve never killed Rigsby! I’ve never killed anyone except Timothy Carter and Dumar Hardy. You _know_ this! Why are you trying to get me arrested for crimes I’ve never committed?” Lisbon kept quiet and Jane sneered. He had helped the woman, year after year and _this_ was how she was going to repay him? By keeping false stories and telling things to others that slandered his good name? “Come on, Teresa!” Lisbon glanced up at him and Jane lost his sneer. He had finally gotten Lisbon’s attention! “You’ve known me for _years_! Tell Luther and Susan that they have the wrong man!”

 

 Lisbon continued to stare.

 

_Is she purposely being difficult,_ Jane wondered silently. Lisbon had defended him, time and time before, but why wasn’t she defending him this time? He needed her help and she was just standing there!

 

            “Teresa!” Jane tried again. “I didn’t do anything! You have to believe me. I would never do anything to purposely endanger you or your unit.” Lisbon said nothing again and Jane grew frustrated with her. “You know, _our family_ , if you remem…”

 

Before he could finish his sentence, he felt Lisbon’s fist crash into his nose.

 

            “Restrain her!” Jane barely heard Darcy order Wainwright, as he watched the Special-Agent-in-Charge grab at Lisbon’s arms. He ignored the fact that he was probably bleeding, that Lisbon’s hard fist had probably broken his nose and the pain; only to stare at Lisbon in horror, who was fighting against Wainwright’s restraint. She had never lashed out to hurt him before. Sure, years ago, she had punched him for pretending that they all were going to die…but the punch hadn’t been hard enough to break anything then.

 

            “You need to calm down, Ms. Lisbon.” Wainwright said and Jane blinked, as the brunette’s anger deflated before his eyes. _Ms. Lisbon_? Had Wainwright just directly insulted Lisbon by taking her official title of Senior Agent away? He waited for Lisbon’s explosion at Wainwright’s insult, but none came, as Lisbon had bowed her head again.

 

_What in the hell?_ Jane couldn’t believe his eyes. Lisbon didn’t just _roll_ over and take insults; she fought back and told others what they needed to hear. _I have to be missing something here_.

 

            “You can either go home and let us deal with the rest or you can go into the interrogation room with Agent Darcy.” Wainwright continued. Jane watched him let go of Lisbon’s arms. “It’s against protocol, I know, but I would rather have a second person in the room…”

 

            “I could go, sir.” Jane heard Van Pelt whisper and he watched Wainwright shake his head.

 

            “You’re not going in there, Agent Van Pelt.” Wainwright answered, without glancing at her. “You’ve had more than enough issues lately.” Jane had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the pregnancy. “Either myself or Ms. Lisbon will go in there…”

 

            “I’ll go, sir.” Lisbon answered, quietly. Jane felt Darcy maneuvering his arms and he twisted his body around to follow her directions, as she led him toward one of the many interrogation rooms. 

 

Jane said nothing, as Darcy sat him down at the silver interrogation table and took a seat across from him. Lisbon followed after, a file folder in her hand.

 

_Did the entire world turn upside down overnight?_ Jane wondered, as he waited for one of them to break the silence again.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**19—**

The seconds of silence ticked into minutes, as he kept his eyes focused on Darcy and Lisbon. Darcy had her eyes buried in the case file, probably trying to remember every little detail of the case, while Lisbon focused her attention on everything _except_ him. The handcuffs hurt his wrists and he was beyond thirsty, but he ignored both issues to focus on how he was going to get out of this entire mess. Darcy and Lisbon _clearly_ believed that he was guilty of at least six crimes (maybe even more) and unless he could talk them out of their silliness, he knew he was going to jail.

 

Jane opened his mouth to speak, when Darcy beat him to the punch. “We never thought we’d see you again, Mr. Jane.” He closed his mouth. “Of course, you always _did_ have a soft spot for Teresa, didn’t you?”

 

            “Lisbon is my friend.” Jane replied, softly. He was upset with Lisbon for not _trying_ to clear his good name, but he couldn’t hate her. Lisbon was probably under a lot of pressure from Bertram, Darcy _and_ Wainwright; and the last thing he wanted to do was cause her anymore problems. “Ergo, I have a soft spot for her. You can’t honestly tell me that you don’t have soft spots for your friends, Susan.” Darcy merely smiled; her dirty blonde hair pushed away from her face, as she brought the case file back down to the table.

 

            “I have soft spots for all of my friends, Patrick.” Darcy dryly admitted. Jane doubted that, as the woman was too hard on herself to actually have friends, outside of a work setting. “Then again,” she continued with a sly smile, “I’ve never killed or hurt any of mine, like you have.” He stared at her for a moment. In his years at the CBI, he had _never_ gotten any of the members on the Serious Crimes Unit killed; he had endangered their lives a few times with his silly stunts and he had almost gotten them fired, but he had never set any of them up to die. Darcy must have taken his silence as a form of guilt, as she asked her next question. “Would you like me to call you a lawyer, Patrick?”

 

            “No.” Jane knew he was innocent, regardless of what anybody else thought. He had woken up in the Child’s home, hours ago, with no memory of any of the crimes that Wainwright had rattled off to him. Whoever was trying to frame him (Jane guessed Red John or one of his _friends_ ) had done an excellent job at getting the CBI and the FBI on his back, but he had no fear that he couldn’t get out by finding someway around the _supposed_ evidence. “I’ve done nothing wrong, aside from jaywalking. But everybody does that, now don’t they?” He wore a smile, as he brought his attention back to Lisbon. “I know you don’t believe me, but I _am_ innocent. I might mislead you, but I have never lied to you...”

 

Lisbon didn’t even glance in his direction.

 

            “DNA rarely lies, Patrick.” Darcy interrupted, as he still looked at Lisbon. “Forensics found your semen and Grace Van Pelt’s blood on the sheets of your motel room.” Jane blinked in surprise. He hadn’t been sexually active with another person since before his wife’s death, as he had been in too much of a bad place to even think about his own pleasure. “Tell me, how does your semen get on the sheets if you weren’t raping her? Unless you were sexually pleasuring yourself, of course.” Darcy eyed him.

 

            “Are you asking if I masturbate, Agent?” Jane asked and he glanced back at her. Darcy nodded and Jane glanced down at the silver table. Once or twice, he had done _that_ after his wife’s death; but he had stopped shortly after entering the CBI, as he was working way too much to even think about doing it anymore. “Doesn’t everybody do it though?” Lisbon jerked her head up, which brought his attention back to her.

 

            “I didn’t.” Lisbon muttered and Jane raised his eyebrows in response. Out of _everything_ he had been expecting the woman to say, that answer hadn’t even _been_ on the list. Darcy ignored Lisbon’s comment with the tilt of her head.

 

            “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

 

            “You can also take that as a go to hell.” Jane replied, calmly. Darcy lost her smile and leaned back in her chair, before she crossed her arms against her chest and fixed him with another stare. “I have never raped Grace Van Pelt, so your so-called _truthful_ DNA is obviously lying.” Lisbon should have known that he would never touch or violate _anybody_ like that. Grace was attractive, yes. But he wasn’t about to try and force his way into her pants, just because of that.

 

Darcy shook her head. “You didn’t make Grace Van Pelt get down on her knees or tell her to…” He watched Darcy glance back down at the case file, which she flipped open again. “…fuck you with her tongue?”

 

            “No!” Jane said, absolutely horrified and disgusted by the idea. “I didn’t! I would never say or do that!” Darcy continued to stare at him with her lips pursed. “Where are you getting this ridiculous information, Susan?”

 

            “I am getting this information from Teresa, who was there when you admitted that you blew up Kimball Cho, who watched you blow Wayne Rigsby’s face clean off, and who watched you force Grace Van Pelt down on her knees.” Darcy uncrossed her arms and went for the glossy crime scene photos within the file. Jane said nothing, as she slid the two photos to him from across the table.

 

He glanced down at the two photos, while he wondered if everyone had gone crazy. The first photo, was set in some type of a warehouse; the concrete floor had been a soft gray, littered with broken glass and cigarette buds, but what had caught his entire attention was the body and the amount of blood on the floor within the photograph.

 

            “His face was shot clean off.” Darcy explained, as Jane pushed the photo away in horror. He had seen many horrible things in his time with the Serious Crimes Unit, but he hadn’t been expecting to see one of his _friends_ lying face down in a pool of his own blood. “Sarah Harrigan, Wayne Rigsby’s girlfriend at the time and the mother of his son, had one heck of a time identifying his body.” Jane glanced up at her. He would have never killed Rigsby or taken him away from his son; Jane had grown up without his mother and he had never wished _any_ child not to have both of their parents around to raise them. Rigsby had been trying to right the wrongs of his father and although life had never been fair, it seemed especially unfair that Rigsby had been taken from his son and Jane was being blamed for it. “You did that, Patrick. Teresa and Grace watched you pull the trigger; they were there.”

 

But _he_ hadn’t been there. He had been at the Child’s home, solving a murder.

 

            “It happened three months ago, Patrick.” Darcy continued. “Do you know where you were three months ago?”

 

Jane nodded. He’d prove his innocence! Darcy had been with him three months ago, as they had been solving a crime together. “I was helping you solve a case, before I helped Lisbon close hers.” Lisbon stared at him, surprise written all over her face. Had he said something wrong? It was still May, wasn’t it? Three months from May had been March and he had been with Darcy, who had asked to borrow him to _keep her job_. “It’s May, isn’t it?”

 

            “No, Patrick.” Darcy replied, softly with the shake of her head. “It’s April 2nd of 2013.” Jane glanced at her in disbelief. It couldn’t be 2013 yet; they hadn’t even been in 2012 for _that_ long. “Are you missing months in your memory?”

 

He blinked. When Amy had pulled the trigger, it had been the day before the three-day Memorial weekend; he had wanted to solve the Child’s case, so Lisbon could take her holiday. How in the world had he missed an entire year almost? He just knew, he couldn’t answer Darcy’s question with either _yes_ or _no_. If he told the truth and said _yes_ , she’d think he had something wrong upstairs—which he didn’t! But if he lied and said _no_ , she’d think he was working for Red John again.

 

Either way, Jane knew he wouldn’t win with Darcy.

 

_Unless,_ he tried to reason their behaviors silently, _they’re pulling my leg._

Jane stared at Lisbon and Darcy. Lisbon, he knew, had a sense of humor but there was a limit to what type of a joke she would play; she had never tried anything that could harm another person, yet the handcuffs were still cutting into his wrists. And Darcy’s sense of humor hadn’t seemed, to him anyway, to involve cuffing one’s arms behind their back. Instead of saying anything, Jane glanced back down at the photos. There had to be something there that would exonerate him, otherwise they would have never provided him with the pictures.

 

The second glossy picture involved a ER table. Jane could just barely make out Cho with the doctors and nurses around him, but the man looked absolutely horrible within the photograph. Cuts, bruises and burned skin stared back at him from the photo and as if it had burned him, Jane dropped the photo back down on the table. 

 

            “We’re only interrogating you out of common courtesy, Patrick.” Darcy spoke again. “We already know you’ve committed all of these crimes; we just want to know why you did it.” Jane continued to stare at the pictures of Cho and Rigsby. He would have never killed or tried to kill anybody on Lisbon’s unit; they had all helped him and none of them had done anything (unlike Red John) to deserve death. “I can only speculate, but I believe it has something to do with how tired you were getting.” Jane glanced back up at her. He _was_ tired, but it wasn’t because he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. It was because of her endless and pointless questions that wouldn’t get them any closer to the real murderer. “After all, you can only chase yourself so much, before the thrill wears off. Right?”

 

            “What are you implying, Susan?” Jane had a feeling where the conversation was going and he didn’t like it one bit.

 

Darcy leaned forward in her seat. “You did an excellent job, Patrick, up until the very end.”

 

            “I’d like to think I actually know what you’re talking about.” Jane replied.

 

            “Just make this easier on us all and admit to what you’ve done.” Darcy answered and Jane raised his eyebrows, as he shifted within his chair. Darcy wasn’t making any sense at all, really. He glanced at Lisbon for further clarification, but she kept quiet. “Your confession won’t get you out of prison or the possibility of the death penalty, but…”

 

            “The _death penalty_?” Jane exclaimed. Darcy nodded. “I haven’t committed any crimes, recently. I would understand if I had killed someone again, but you have no proof aside from two photographs, DNA, and the testimonies from a pregnant Grace and a jilted Senior Agent, who hasn’t said more than _two words_ this entire time.” He would have pounded his fist against the table to make a valid point, if his hands had been free. “Have you thought that these photos could be doctored, Susan?” Darcy opened her mouth to reply, but he refused to let her have the last word. “Red John has men everywhere. You’d be a fool to not look into that first, before you go around throwing aimless accusations at me.”

 

            “Ah.” Darcy replied, leaning back in her chair again. “Just the topic I was waiting for you to bring up, Patrick. Red John.” He didn’t appreciate the glances or the tone that she kept giving him, but he kept his mouth shut. “Tell me, Patrick. How do you recruit your followers?”

 

Jane saw red at her implication. He jumped up from his seat and lunged toward Darcy, even with his arms restrained behind his back. Darcy merely shook her head and stood from her seat. Lisbon sat frozen.

 

            “This is one hell of a way to prove your alleged innocence, Patrick.” Darcy commented, as he watched her stick her hand into her jacket pocket. “If you don’t sit back down in your seat and finish our conversation like an adult, I’ll have security take you away.” Jane glared at her.

 

He wasn’t Red John, he despised everything about the serial killer who had taken his wife and child away from him. Darcy’s so-called _truthful_ accusation was based on hearsay, even if she had forensic reports and photos of alleged crime scenes. Slowly, he sat back down on the edge of his seat (which he somehow had managed to not upturn in his anger) and watched Darcy smile.

 

            “That wasn’t too hard, now was it?” Darcy asked. Jane kept quiet. If he lashed out at her (or Lisbon), he knew that Darcy would hold him for police brutality; and nobody, aside from criminals, took hitting an officer of the law too kindly. “I only asked a simple question, as I know Red John has his methods. If you’ve studied Red John, like you say you have,” she obviously didn’t believe that he was a _grieving_ widow, who was still trying to move on with the loss of his wife and child, “then you should know how he recruits others.”

 

            “I’m not Red John, Susan. I also told you months ago that I wasn’t one of his friends, after you and I discussed the death of your sister.” Jane answered and Darcy lost her smile. “You obviously have an alternative motive for why you’re asking how Red John gets his friends. Did you have a friend who worked for Red John, Susan?” Her silence told him all that he needed to know and he nodded in response. “Was it Craig O’Laughlin?”

 

Jane watched in silence, as anger crossed Darcy’s face for a brief moment; the FBI agent was good at keep her emotions away, but she wasn’t great. He could still read her like a book.

 

            “Susan.” Jane continued. “Craig was a foolish man; Red John picked him for the amount of hubris he had. Loyal, but extremely foolish in his choices.” Darcy remained silent. Jane hadn’t gotten to know O’Laughlin very well, but he had quickly learned that the liaison for relations between the FBI and the CBI had thought that he was better than everyone else because of his posh title.

 

Red John looked for followers, who had been jaded by a past life experience (years of childhood abuse, years of cutting, someone who had a certain amount of ugliness fostering deep within them) or had been hurt by a past love, to join him and O’Laughlin had probably been sucked into the promise of better things that had eventually led the man to his death.

 

He continued to stare at Darcy. Jane knew there had been more to Darcy’s cold exterior than _just_ the hurt from a family loss; most children could get over a loss of a sibling, provided that their parents had nurtured them right (and Jane could tell, just by looking at Darcy, that her parents had given the right balance of love and strictness). In his opinion, Darcy hadn’t only been hurt once in her life; she had been hurt twice and her indirect question hinted toward the fact that she and O’Laughlin might have had a few interactions together that were less than innocent.

 

            “You’re better off without him, Susan.” Jane said. “In the end, Craig was trouble and if he had been given the chance, he would have dragged your career to nothing.” He fixed her with a stare. “Or worse.” Jane didn’t even want to imagine Darcy as one of Red John’s many friends, as the woman had a good head on her shoulders and her heart (while sometimes misguided) was in the right place.

 

_If only she’d listen to it though_ , Jane thought. If Darcy or Lisbon listened to their gut instincts, they would have know that he just couldn’t be the killer of Rigsby, the rapist of Grace or the bomber of Cho. Jane had only ever wanted to kill Red John, as Red John threated them all over and over again with his sadistic ways.

 

            “You know nothing, Patrick.” Darcy replied, after a moment of silence.

 

            “I know enough, Susan.” Jane said and Darcy glanced down at the table. “But that accusation that I’m Red John is ridiculous.” She met his gaze, almost appreciatively and he wondered if she would take the hint that he hadn’t done any of those things. “Why would I kill my wife or child, Susan? Why would I want to hurt anybody on Lisbon’s unit?” He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. “Even if I _was_ Red John, which I’m not, why would I want to kill the individuals who were of more use to me alive than dead?”

 

Red John enjoyed his kills, but he also enjoyed having others to toy with and others to show off to. He had specifically chosen the Serious Crimes Unit to toy with, as he had told them all years ago to _keep up the good work_ and no serial killer went through that much work only to kill off his little dented trophies of success. Any profiler with half an education could have probably told Darcy that, but the woman still appeared to not understand basic psychology _or_ logic.

 

            “Did you not tell me that you’d get around to taking a lie detector test when you remembered exactly where you had put your kitchen knife and rubber gloves, almost a year ago?” Darcy asked.

 

Jane couldn’t help but chuckle at her words; out of the FBI Agent’s mouth, it sounded so serious. Darcy and Lisbon glanced at him briefly and regardless of what Darcy thought it meant, the line (and whoever had said it) was brilliant.

 

            “Oh come on,” Jane said, after he had finished laughing. “You can’t tell me that isn’t funny.”

 

            “It would be funny,” Darcy agreed with a small grimace, “if you _weren’t_ Red John, Patrick.”

 

And there it was. The direct accusation that he had been waiting for her to make since before he had lunged at her. Jane shook his head at Darcy’s lack of logic and piss poor deduction skills. He had been chasing after Red John for nine (or ten, depending on if Darcy and Lisbon weren’t still pulling his leg) years and the fact that Lisbon couldn’t vouch for his moral character stunned him.

 

He had saved her from Dumar Hardy, from Roy Carmen, from the loss of her job (many times) and her way of repaying him was to keep quiet when he needed her the most? Their friendship had been based on the concept of saving one another from the very beginning and if she couldn’t even save him when it was needed, could he even consider her as his friend?

 

Jane tried to give Lisbon the benefit of the down. Darcy was in the room and Lisbon had never felt comfortable with the FBI Agent, who had butted her way into their Red John case with a flourish. He had a feeling that if Darcy left the room, he’d have an easier time of talking to Lisbon and convincing her of his innocence, but it didn’t seem as if Darcy was going to leave the room or them alone anytime soon.

 

            “You can’t believe any of this, Teresa.” Jane tried to plead with Lisbon again; he knew Lisbon had logic, as she was an intelligent person. She had to believe what he was saying, didn’t she? He hoped that the use of her first name would cause her to react again, as he desperately needed her to say something to make him understand what was going on. Darcy kept quiet as Lisbon glanced up from the interrogation table to stare at him, unmasked hurt in her green eyes.

 

            “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Jane.” Lisbon replied, quietly and the raw pain in her voice made his heart ache. She had seemed so full of life when he had last talked to her; she had yelled at him for his treatment of Darcy and Wainwright, while he had flipped through the radio channels within the SUV. But now, she just looked and sounded lost. “I thought you were a good person once upon a time, but I guess I was just an ignorant Senior Agent of the Serious Crimes Unit.”

 

_Was?_ Jane caught onto her word choice with an inquisitive stare. Wainwright’s earlier use of Ms. Lisbon toward the Senior Agent had set off a few warning flags within his head. The Special-Agent-in-Charge had always usually called Lisbon by her official title, mainly out of respect, and Lisbon’s shrug following her _ignorant_ comment concerned him. The Lisbon he had known would have never shrugged off the loss of her job (he assumed that whoever had framed him for all of those crimes had somehow caused for Lisbon to lose her job, the one thing that she prided above everything else), she would have found someway to challenge the decision. Although, Jane was slightly confused as to why Lisbon was still at the CBI, especially if Wainwright had fired her.

 

Jane wanted to grab her from where he was sitting to tell her that everything would be okay, but he couldn’t.  Instead, he continued to wonder what in the world had happened to her. What had happened to the Teresa Lisbon had had once known and had thought the world of? The woman before him was a mere shell of her former self, aside from when she had punched him in the nose earlier.

 

            “Who said that?” Jane asked her and she continued to glance at him, her stare unwavering. “I did?” Lisbon nodded and he stared at her with a frown. Lisbon was one of the smartest Senior Agents that he had ever known and he could say that, because he had worked with Ray Halfner and his group of overgrown monkeys for a week. “I would never say anything like that to you, Lisbon. I know how well you’ve always done your job and even if you’ve made a few mistakes,” he took a moment to glare at Darcy, “I promise we’ll work through them.”

 

            “I made several mistakes.” Lisbon said, quietly as she glanced back down at the table. “I got Rigsby killed, Summer killed, because I didn’t listen. I got Van Pelt raped and pregnant, because I didn’t use my head. I almost got Cho killed, because I didn’t see it. But above all of that,” Lisbon met his eyes again, “falling in love with you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” She bowed her head toward the table again and he stared at the top of her head, confusion written across his face.

 

Lisbon had been in love with him?

 

He tried to wrap his head around the thought of her loving him, as he vaguely heard Darcy leave the interrogation room. He and Lisbon had been friends for a long time; she had seen him at his worst, she had been the one to help her get her memory back (even if he had resented her about how she had gone about it for awhile) and she had stood by him, when everybody else had left him to suffer on his own. But he had never thought of _any_ of that as love, because Lisbon had always been an extremely loyal and private person.

 

Apart from her one night stand with Walter Mashburn,  Lisbon had never taken a lover in the years that she had known him and a woman as beautiful as her (even as a workaholic with a damaged intensity) had to get asked out or hit on every once in a while, didn’t she? Jane had never thought of her staying single as being directly related to him though; he had just thought it had something to do with her job (the odd hours of her job made relationships nearly impossible) or Red John, who had the tendency of getting jealous when someone new entered the playing field.

 

Jane continued to stare at Lisbon. How had he missed it? The lingering stares, the easy smiles, the way she had always tried to save him from his own messes, and the way she dropped everything for him and for his crazy plans to catch Red John.

 

She had been completely in love with him and he had never given her anything to work with. Too consumed with his quest for revenge toward Red John and the memories of his lost family, he hadn’t even seen what Red John probably had.

 

That he, Patrick Jane, was in love with her, Teresa Lisbon, too.

 

He opened his mouth to tell her how much of an idiot he had been and how much of their time he had wasted already with his silly apologies, but before he could get the words out, Lisbon stood from her chair and left him in the interrogation room; alone with only his demons and regrets to keep him company, until Darcy returned and allowed for someone to take him from the room.


	20. Chapter 20

**20—**

 

****

The holding cell within the Sacramento Courthouse was a white four-walled windowless area with a single silver toilet, sink and an uncomfortable off-white bench that Jane could stretch out and sleep on, if the proceedings upstairs didn’t start soon.

 

He glanced through the glass window on the door with a sigh, before he looked down at the silver handcuffs around his wrists with a shake of his head. Jane had tried asking Warden Donovan Lyle (the man in charge of Sacramento County Jail, where he had been staying for the past nine months) to remove the handcuffs, but the brown-haired Warden had refused once again.

 

Of course, as the court believed him to be Red John, the handcuffs were there to protect the individuals in the courtroom. The handcuffs were _also_ there to keep him from committing suicide, before they could sentence him to his death. Not that Jane would have committed suicide in a courtroom full of people, but Darcy had apparently thought _Red John_ would want to exit the world in some dramatic way that would traumatize a courtroom full of jurors, victims, police officers and witnesses.

 

The real Red John most certainly would have gone out in such a fashion; his blood would have splattered the courtroom walls. Jane, on the other hand, felt no need to end his life—especially when he knew he was innocent of all crimes the state of California had brought against him.

 

He hadn’t killed Summer Edgecombe. He hadn’t killed Wayne Rigsby. Red John had.

 

He hadn’t attempted to murder Kimball Cho. He hadn’t raped Grace Van Pelt or Teresa Lisbon. Red John had.

 

He also hadn’t murdered his wife, child or countless others either. Red John had.

 

And nobody believed him.

 

The evidence against him was a pile, almost six feet high. Osvaldo Ardiles had gathered enough DNA evidence, witness and expert testimony, and physical proof to prove that he (not the actual Red John, whoever that was) had committed over fifty crimes.

 

His fingerprints had covered every surface of Lisbon’s gun, which had been the weapon used to kill Rigsby. His fingerprints (along with Lisbon’s) had also covered the keys of a CBI-issued laptop, which _Red John_ had used to blow Cho and Summer up.

 

On the stand, three months ago, Grace and Lisbon had also both admitted to seeing him kill Rigsby.

 

_“Tell me, Agent Grace Van Pelt.” Ardiles had introduced the redheaded woman, as she sat on the witness stand before the jury. Grace had worn an olive-colored and long-sleeved turtleneck sweater and her body had been thin; the high amounts of visible exhaustion rolling off her shoulders had told him, even without hearing her speak, that the young woman wasn’t having an easy time. “What do you remember happening on the day of January 2 nd, 2013?” _

_Grace had kept her eyes of him, as she had leaned into the small microphone to speak. “Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon had gotten a call on her cellphone from Patrick Jane, early on in the day. We…”_

 

_“Yourself, Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon and Agent Rigsby?” Ardiles had to clarify._

_“Yes, sir.” Grace had replied, quietly with a brief nod of her head. “We put together the clues he—Patrick Jane—gave us, before we went to Oxley’s Shoe Warehouse.”_

_“Without backup, Grace?” Ardiles had asked. “Doesn’t the CBI require at least a dozen agents to accompany you to a possible hostage situation?” From where Jane had been sitting, Grace had looked almost hesistant to answer Ardiles’ question, until the attorney had leaned across the witness stand in his expensive Italian suit. Ardiles had covered the microphone with his hand and his mouth moved, before Jane watched Grace’s head bob up and down; and her long, red hair had shrouded her face from his vision._

_“They do. It’s something you learn from the academy and the CBI handbook.” Grace had admitted, shyly. “Teresa Lisbon, my boss at the time though, hadn’t wanted to call for backup. She had feared that the FBI or the CBI would have arrested Patrick Jane on sight.” Ardiles had nodded and Grace continued. “Wayne Rigsby had found Patrick Jane in one of the larger factory rooms and Lisbon freed him from the chair that he had been bound too, before he had taken her gun from her.”_

_“Did Mr. Jane say anything to you or Agent Lisbon, after you had found him with her gun?”_

_Grace had nodded again, before she down at her hands in her lap. “Yes.”_

_“Did he admit that he was Red John, Grace?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Tell me about that, please.”_

_“Lisbon and Jane were talking. Lisbon told him he was Red John and Jane agreed.” Grace had explained, without glancing up. “Jane admitted that he worked better with knives. Red John favored a kitchen knife.”_

_Ardiles had nodded. “Did he say anything to you?”_

_Jane had watched her bottom lip quiver slightly. “He did.”_

_“What did he say, Grace?”_

_“He—Jane—said I was whore. He said I would kill my child.” Grace had sounded on the verge of tears, but he still couldn’t see her face. Why had she been hiding her face from him? He had known about the rape charge, but he had wondered if the woman was ashamed for making up such tales involving him. “He also said that no one will ever want me, because I was—am—the sloppy seconds of a rapist.” Jane had stared at her in horror._

_“By rapist, Mr. Jane was referring to himself?”_

_“Yes, sir.” Grace had glanced up from her lap and her brown eyes were bright with unshed tears, as she had pushed her hair back behind her ears. Jane had felt sick. Grace had done nothing to deserve what she had gotten from the sick serial killer._

_“Did Mr. Jane rape you?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_While the courtroom had exploded into a frenzy of yells, Jane hadn’t taken his eyes off of Grace, who had tried to shrink into her seat at all of the noise._

_The Judge, Larry Dallas, had called order to the courtroom; and once the room had fallen into silence again, Ardiles had continued on with his line of questioning._

_“Did you see Mr. Jane kill Rigsby, Grace?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Tell me a little about that?”_

_“He…” Grace had started and Jane glanced down at the defense table, briefly. He had seen the written statements from both Grace and Lisbon about what had happened in the warehouse and he had been stunned into silence; how anybody, even Red John, could do something so_ twisted _had been beyond him. “He shot Rigsby.”_

The psychologist for the prosecution, two months ago, had declared him _sane and fit_ for a murder charge.

 

            _“He is perfectly sane.” Dr. Ashland had responded, after Ardiles had questioned the doctor on Jane’s mental health. Dr. Ashland had studied at all of the top schools and had been one of the most brilliant scholars in the field of forensic psychology. “As Special-Agent-in-Charge Luther Wainwright stated earlier, Mr. Jane is a fully-functioning psychopath.”_

_“How do you explain the so-called lapse in his memory as being sane, Dr. Ashland?”_

_“It doesn’t take much for a memory to repress itself, Mr. Ardiles. Traumatic events, head injuries, etc. are all plausible reasons for why Mr. Jane’s memory would be repressed.” It had quickly dawned on Jane what Ardiles was doing with his line of questioning; the attorney was going to tie in the suicide of Amy Child to prove that his lapse in memory had been brought on by the traumatic sight of a girl blowing her head off, when in fact, he had seen much worse._

_“So, say Mr. Jane witnessed someone committing suicide before his eyes.” Ardiles had said. “Would that be an event, traumatic enough, to cause a repressed memory?”_

_Dr. Ashland with his dark blue eyes and dirty blonde hair had nodded on the witness stand, a small smile on his lips. “Certainly! That type of a traumatic event could have also triggered schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, dissociative identity disorder or various other psychological disorders.” Dr. Ashland had paused. “Mr. Jane though, did not test positive for being anything other than a fully-functioning psychopath.” Inkblot and observational tests were crude diagnostic tools for a reason; anybody could be a psychopath, on any given day, depending on their mood._

_“We keep hearing that exact phrase, “fully-functioning psychopath”, in reference to Mr. Jane. Can you tell us what that means, exactly?”_

_“Mr. Jane can function fully in society, which means he is fully open to the experiences of life.” Dr. Ashland had answered. “The psychopath alone, however, feels no guilt, discomfort or remorse for his or her actions.” Dr. Ashland paused to take a sip of his water, before he had continued. “From what I’ve gathered about Red John. Red John is someone, who in my expert opinion feels deep seated remorse for his past actions.”_

_“How so?” Jane had wanted to know the exact same thing, as he had been studying the serial killer for much longer than Dr. Ashland had._

_“The smiley face that Red John leaves behind is indicative of an individual, who believes he or she is making the world a much better place.” Ardiles had revealed a picture of Red John’s common signature on the television screen, closest to the jury. “Notice the detail in how he or she crafts the face; the creator is a person, who feels that they have wronged the world. He or she also regrets the murders that they commit to get to their ultimate goal, which is redemption.”_

_“Could Mr. Jane be Red John?” Ardiles had asked again._

_“It’s certainly possible.” Dr. Ashland had concluded, after a moment of silence and another sip of his water. “Mr. Jane still feels deep guilt over the psychic cons that he had pulled years ago; and to balance out the staggering guilt, he became a killer to try and get rid of his conscience. Sometimes, the method works. Sometimes, it doesn’t.” Dr. Ashland had shrugged. “Unfortunately for Mr. Jane, becoming a one-time-killer hadn’t quite worked out, as he had planned. After his first murder in 1998, I would say that Mr. Jane realized that a single_ _killing wouldn’t silence his conscience forever, thus he continued to kill to keep the voices in his own head quiet.”_

Jane shook his head in disgust at the memory. Psychologists had nothing they could actively study, except for hearsay and impractical theory of psychobabble. Dr. Ashland, _while_ impressive and charismatic on the stand, had been rather seedy when they had held a one-on-one meeting, prior to that court appearance; and Jane had wondered if Ardiles had found Dr. Ashland by mail-order.

 

If Dr. Ashland’s words held any water to them, in Jane’s opinion, anybody could have been a fully functioning psychopath: from the little girl down the street to the old woman at the bingo parlor. Nobody (not even Red John, who probably had his own fare share of skeletons hidden away) could live life without regrets, as regrets taught others _not_ to look back.

 

Days after Dr. Ashland’s testimony, Ardiles had called Cho to the witness stand for questioning. In his wheelchair, the stoic former agent had all but declared him a serial killer.

 

            “ _I left work early for personal business.” Cho had explained to Ardiles, who had asked about the day of the car explosion. “I had asked Senior Agent Lisbon if I could take one of the CBI SUV’s, as my own personal vehicle was in the shop still. Summer Edgecomb had asked if she could come along and I agreed. We drove all the way out to Placerville, before I realized we had gained a flat tire.”_

_“What happened after you found the flat, Agent Cho?” Ardiles had asked._

_“I pulled into the closest filling station, parked and popped on the spare tire.” Cho had answered. “I got back into the vehicle. Summer was saying something about dogs, when I heard a distinct pop. She fell silent, midsentence, and I glanced in her direction.” He had paused. “I found Summer slumped over in the passenger seat and I leaned over to her.”_

_“Did you say anything to her?”_

_“Yes.” Cho had replied with a sharp nod. “I said, “Summer”, she didn’t respond.  I placed my hand under her chin; my hand came back stained with blood. Her blood.” Cho’s voice had become tight with emotion and Jane had forced himself to look away. “I tried to find a pulse, but before I could, I felt pain.”_

_“You were blown up?”_

_“That’s what my doctors said, anyway.” Cho had said._

_“Did Mr. Jane ever visit you in the hospital?”_

_“Yeah, he did.”_

_“What did he tell you?”_

_Cho had shrugged and Jane had glanced back at him. “Jane said Lisbon blamed herself. He also said that I must feel defeated because of my current state, due to the bomb.” Cho had briefly motioned to the wheelchair he was confined in, which had continued to stun Jane into complete silence. In jail, Jane had thought Darcy was pulling his leg about Cho, until he had seen it with his own eyes. “I said nothing. Jane told me that most individuals in my position felt the need to end their lives and how he hoped I didn’t try.” Cho had grown silent for a moment or so, before he continued to speak. “He said I could up the dosage of morphine into my body, but he warned me to be careful, as too much morphine could kill you.”_

_Jane had felt horrified at Cho’s statement. While he would have said something like that to a murderer, he would have never said it to Cho. He would have never said it to a friend, who might have taken the words to heart._

_“Did you feel as if he had suggested suicide to you, Agent Cho?”_

_Cho had nodded, before their eyes had met. “It’s a common trick of Patrick Jane’s. He suggests something to the point of where his words don’t leave your brain, until you’ve done the suggested action.”_

_“Have his words left your brain yet?”_

_“No.” Cho had stated, his attention still on Jane. “They haven’t.”_

He shifted in his spot on the hard bench, before he leaned back against the wall. Seeing Cho in a wheelchair had been hard to stomach, but hearing that Cho actually _thought_ he had killed Summer and had tried to kill him also hadn’t helped to settle the lead weight in his stomach.

 

Cho had never trusted him completely, that much had been obvious from the very beginning. The man had only gone along with his plans to catch Red John or to help get Lisbon out of trouble, because he had trusted Lisbon and Lisbon’s logic. And in Cho’s opinion (from Jane’s knowledge of the man), if Lisbon went along with his plan, Cho trusted her to keep them from death’s doorstep or to keep them from getting into trouble with the big suits.

 

 _Lisbon failed him this time_ ; Jane realized silently, _Lisbon failed them all._

 

Lisbon had slept with the enemy (Red John), she had gotten Grace raped and she had gotten Rigsby killed, because of the _trust_ she had placed in him.

 

Jane doubted Cho would hold it against her for too much longer though. Lisbon, after all, _was_ human and she still made mistakes.

 

While Grace’s and Cho’s testimonies had made him feel as if he would never step outside of prison walls again, Lisbon’s and Lorelei Martin’s (an accomplice of Red John’s, who Jane had never met before) testimonies had sealed the outcome of the trial and his fate, even without the jury of his _peers_ having heard the closing statements.

 

Ardiles hadn’t needed to question Lisbon on the witness stand, as Grace had given the man everything he had needed (a solid confession that he _was_ Red John, that he had been the one to rape her and that he had killed Rigsby), but Jane had quickly realized that Ardiles hadn’t brought her up to cement his case.

 

No, in fact, Ardiles had brought her on the stand for two completely different reasons.

 

The first was to make sure that he couldn’t escape the death penalty. Bertram had apparently feared his abilities as a charismatic speaker (he had used those skills, after all, to escape prison time when he had killed Timothy Carter, years ago) and had forced Ardiles to use every available tactic into making sure nothing less of the death penalty would be ruled upon.

 

By using Lisbon’s testimony in Rigsby’s death, Grace’s raping and her own raping, Bertram and Ardiles had both excluded any slight chances of the jury finding him innocent.

 

Lisbon’s outlandish claim of rape had bothered him though, more so than the matching claims Grace had probably filed at Bertram’s urging. Jane would have never touched either woman, sexually, as he had considered himself celibate up until two months ago when he and a fellow inmate named Jade had shared a few intimate moments in the laundry room of the jailhouse.

 

The second mainly dealt with the bureau’s need to clean up a mess. After the media had gotten ahold of the information that _Red John was Patrick Jane_ , the public had thirsted for Lisbon’s blood. Bold statements had lined the headlines of the newspapers for months: ‘ **Senior Agent Misses Red John** ’,‘ **CBI’s Biggest Mistake: Hiring Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane** ’, ‘ **Victims Want Retribution: The Red John Mishap** ’, **‘Red John Was in Her Sheets the Entire Time, Says One CBI Official** ’, and ‘ **California Bureau of Idiots?** ’ but nobody had felt humiliation was a good enough punishment. To the CBI, it hadn’t mattered that they had just ruined the life of a once exemplary agent by smearing her pictures all across the front page of _every_ newspaper in the State of California. It only mattered that she took a public falling from grace, so they (the CBI) all looked blameless in having not spotted Red John, as they hadn’t been working with him _every single day_ like Lisbon had.

 

The questioning from Ardiles had been a way to continue publically slamming her, while giving her a _fair_ chance to defend her actions. Of course, Ardiles and Bertram had _known_ Lisbon wouldn’t even try; the media had nailed her as _ignorant_ , _blind_ and _Red John’s call girl_ and even if she did try, nobody would take her story seriously.

 

As far as the CBI was concerned, in his opinion, Teresa Lisbon was a disgraced former senior agent, who had been working for Red John all along.

 

            _“Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon.” Ardiles had greeted the brunette-haired woman, almost mockingly after she had taken her seat on the stand. Lisbon had stared straight ahead at nothing and to Jane’s dismay, she hadn’t looked her best. Her dark brown hair had grown past her shoulders; the once well-kept locks of hair had become lank and matted from a lack of care and concern. The dark suit she had been wearing was patched in places and wrinkled (which had suggested to him that Lisbon was having money issues) and it most certainly hung off her form, ill fittingly. “Tell me what happened on January 2 nd, 2013. The day Patrick Jane also known as Red John killed Agent Rigsby, raped Agent Van Pelt and you.” _

_Her voice had been emotionless, uncaring almost. “Jane called me. I went to find him with Van Pelt and Rigsby. Jane killed Rigsby. Van Pelt and I were raped.” Jane had nearly flinched at her lack of buffering. The Lisbon he had once known would have cringed at the bluntness._

_“You were what, Agent Lisbon?” Ardiles had asked. The entire courtroom had heard her statement, but Ardiles had apparently felt that it was completely appropriate to make her say it again._

_Lisbon had merely blinked, before she answered. “I was raped.”_

_Ardiles had crossed his arms against his chest. “So,_ Agent _, let me get this straight.” Ardiles had continued, after a moment of silence and Jane knew the man was going in for the kill. “You were able to see your fellow agent and good friend get raped right in front of you, but you weren’t able to, after years of working together, see that Mr. Jane was not who he said he was?” Lisbon had said nothing. “Remind me,_ Agent _, what made you decide to become a cop again?”_

_The courtroom had burst into a small fit of laughter at Ardiles’ crack, but Jane hadn’t moved. He hadn’t found any of it to be amusing; Lisbon had been raped. How could anybody exploit that? If it hadn’t been for the handcuffs around his wrists, he probably would have tried to strangle Ardiles._

_Jane had almost called objection, but he had a feeling that his help would have only condemned her further in the eyes of the media and in the eyes of the jury._

_Lisbon can take care of herself,_ Jane had told himself.

_“So basically,_ Senior Agent _Lisbon, you are one of those cops who can only solve a case when it is handed to you on a silver platter?” Lisbon had continued to stare straight ahead. “If I remember correctly, Mr. Jane solved about 95% of your cases. Tell me,_ Agent, _if he was that good on the field and in bed apparently, then why didn’t he just run the CBI?” Ardiles had paused to chuckle, which had infuriated Jane. Lisbon had only been trying to do her job! “Oh wait, he did!”_

_The entire courtroom had exploded into laughter and Jane pushed his anger that he felt at their idea of a_ fair _trial away._

_Ardiles is supposed to slaughter me here,_ Jane had thought _, not Lisbon._

_“Jane has always conned people.” Lisbon had replied, flatly._

_“He conned you out of your pants.” Ardiles had answered, skeptically and Lisbon had kept quiet. “Mr. Jane must have some talent if he can get you to do that, really.” Ardiles had paused again, as he had leveled his stare on her with a contained smirk. “Or maybe not.” Again, the entire courtroom had exploded into peals of laughter. “You can step down,_ Agent _Lisbon. I have no further use for you, just like Mr. Jane; this time though, you get to keep your pants on.”_

Jane had wanted to grab the man by his throat and choke him slowly to death for the harassment he had brought Lisbon. Lisbon hadn’t deserved his words, even if the woman had _completely_ missed him being framed and had thrown him into jail without inquiring about his side of the story.

 

Ardiles was a ruthless individual (probably brought on by father issues), yes, but Jane had never thought he would see the man intentionally going after a woman, who had lost everything due to her one little mistake.

 

 _But it isn’t just one little mistake,_ Jane mused silently, _it’s a mistake enough to condone a man to death._

Jane had spent many nights in his prison cell, before the trial, pondering _how_ exactly Red John had managed to fool everybody into thinking that he had been the one behind all of these crimes. Had Red John hypnotized the entire CBI? Had Red John found an almost identical person to take his spot at the CBI? The lapse in memory couldn’t have been a coincidence, as he knew there were so such things as coincidences, but how had Red John managed to strip almost a _year_ from his memory?

 

None of it had made any sense, but Red John had finally beaten him at his own game.

 

The team, who had been hunting the serial killer, no longer existed. Cho couldn’t work for the CBI anymore, due to his injury. Grace had probably refused to work at the CBI, due to her memories of what he had (supposedly) done to her. Rigsby was gone and Lisbon was under the suspicion of being one of Red John’s girls. With everyone being indisposed, Red John had individuals of average intelligence after him, who would only fumble around aimlessly with the case until it went cold.

 

Red John, serial killer or not, had always needed an audience; it was why the killer had splashed the walls _above_ his victims with his calling card, instead of the wall adjacent to his victims. And while Jane had been focused on his quest to kill Red John, he had a million other distractions to focus on; Lisbon, the team, their other cases. In jail though, he had finally been able to focus on the serial killer entirely, not that it had done him much good; he was still on trial for murder and Red John was still free.

 

Of course, Red John was off somewhere laughing about it, as he had sent one of his _many_ girls to testify at the trial. Lorelei Martins, according to Ardiles, had shown up at the CBI hours after Jane had been sent to jail; her bleeding leg had been bandaged and she had told Wainwright that she had information on Red John. The CBI apparently hadn’t found the timing of Lorelei’s appearance odd, as they had allowed for her to testify in exchange for safety from the death penalty.

 

_“Ms. Martins.” Ardiles had greeted the young (and attractive) woman. Handcuffs had bound her wrists together and she wore an orange jail jumpsuit, as she remained seated on the witness stand with her dark hair braided. “Have you talked to Mr. Jane prior to this moment?”_

_Lorelei had nodded, her brown eyes focused on him. “Of course I have,” she replied with a small smile. “He’s Red John; the man of good change.”_

_“How do you this know this, Ms. Martins?” Ardiles had asked, as if the answer hadn’t been obvious. Lorelei was an_ attractive _woman, who had no husband or boyfriend; obviously, she had been one of Red John’s._

_“I worked for Red John; we slept together a few times.” Lorelei had responded, still with a small smile as she had shrugged her shoulders. “It was fun.”_

_“Why are you speaking so freely, Ms. Martins?” Jane had wondered the same exact thing. Red John had killed his other accomplices for way less before. “Aren’t you afraid Red John will murder you if you tell us about him?”_

_“Why should I be afraid of my lover?” Lorelei had questioned and Jane had stared at her. They had never slept together before. If they had, he was sure he would have remembered it. “He has never hurt me.”_

_Is she crazy?_ He had wondered.

_All of Red John’s accomplices had been insane, of course, but the fact everybody had continued to_ believe _the woman was ridiculous. Red John’s accomplices had lied before and Lorelei, whether the court thought that or not, had definitely been pulling a con for her beloved master._

_“But he has hurt others?” Lorelei had nodded, slowly. “Who has he hurt, Ms. Martins?”_

_“He—Red John—killed all of his friends, aside from two of us.” Her brown eyes had gone to him. “He shot me in the leg, which is why I’m here.” Lorelei had paused to smile kindly at him. “You didn’t mean to hurt me, sir, you just need help. I’m sure these lovely people can help you.”_

_He had frozen in his seat._

_At Lorelei’s indirect conversation with him, he knew he had lost. Jane had thought he could possibly explain away the murders and the rapes, but he couldn’t talk away_ that _. Even if he had asked the judge to tell the jury to disregard what Lorelei had said, the jury would remember and Jane would find himself on death row. It didn’t matter how much persuading he could do, no jury would find him innocent on_ that _line._

_“You said there were two accomplices that escaped; you and someone else?” Lorelei had nodded at Ardiles’ question. “Who was the other person?”_

_He had watched Lorelei move closer to the microphone, the kind smile on her face still. “Teresa Lisbon, my sir’s other lover.”_

The court had dissolved into a frenzy of chaos at Lorelei’s false tale, but Jane had known she was lying. Yes, she had been shot in the leg (he had seen the bandages himself). And yes, Red John had killed all of his followers at 9034 Ditch Avenue (he had seen pictures of the bloody massacre, but he had never been to that house before). But no, he had _never_ killed anyone (aside from Dumar Hardy and Timothy Carter); and he most certainly hadn’t ever slept with Lorelei Martins.

 

As for Lorelei’s claim about Lisbon, Jane hadn’t been able to believe it. Lisbon had _slept_ with someone who was framing him, but she would have never willingly _worked_ for Red John; the brown-haired woman, in Jane’s opinion, would have known better than to deal with a serial killer, as it would have gone against her moral character. Lisbon was also everything Red John hated: confident, opinionated, a woman of spirit and drive. All of Red John’s female associates, on the other hand, had always been quite the opposite: self-conscious, submissive, women of past traumas and unspeakable horrors.

 

He had wanted to question Lorelei’s story further, but before he had been able to, the woman had committed suicide on his orders apparently and her _death_ had been pinned on him.

 

Jane shook his head. He hadn’t given her any orders. He hadn’t even been able to speak with her. Bertram hadn’t allowed him a visit, because of the possible idea that he might whisper for her do something rash; as he had done to Cho.

 

            “It’s time.”

 

Jane hadn’t heard the door to his courthouse holding cell open, but the guard’s gruff voice forced him to his feet. The closing statements and the verdict weren’t needed, as everyone knew he was guilty without a doubt (the body language from the members of the jury had told him that), but the trial had to be _fair_.

 

The guard led him from the holding cells and past the hordes of reporters, who lined the main hallway to the courtroom.

 

            “Mr. Jane!”

 

            “Do you think you’ll be found innocent?”

 

Jane ignored them, as he and the uniformed guard stepped through the double doors to the courtroom. No one turned in his or her seats to glance at him, but he caught sight of the various individuals seated within the viewing gallery.

 

Lisbon, in the same shabby dark suit she had worn months ago, sat in the far back of the courtroom. She had her arms crossed against her chest and her eyes on the floor, which had made him, wonder how badly things had gotten for her over the weekend. From what little he had gathered from the Sacramento newspapers, the CBI had officially fired Lisbon and her criminal trial (to see if the state could convict her of a felony or sentence her to jail time for being an accomplice in Red John’s murders) was being held sometime next month.

 

Grace and Cho sat together in the front row of the viewing gallery; Cho in his wheelchair, Grace in her exhaustion. Ardiles had probably warned the both of them against speaking with Lisbon until after the trial, as it might have destroyed his _perfect_ court case. Although, Jane couldn’t see how; Ardiles _had_ the forensic evidence, and he had the jury wrapped around his little finger.

 

Sarah Harrigan sat a few rows behind Cho and Grace with a scowl on her face. Jane eyed her quickly in contempt; he hadn’t seen Sarah at his trial, since the day Lorelei had informed the entire court that Rigsby had been one of Red John’s many friends.

 

            _“Red John offers security to those who need it the most.” Lorelei had said, after Ardiles had asked her about Rigsby. “Wayne had a precious baby boy and a beautiful girlfriend, my sir only wanted to extend an olive branch to the patriarch of the wayward family; “You help me,” my lover had said to Wayne, one evening, “they’ll stay safe.”.”_

Jane hadn’t wanted to believe that Rigsby had been working for Red John, but the physical evidence had been found linking Rigsby to Red John.

 

_“In Mr. Jane’s safe, which the Sacramento Police had found hidden inside of Mr. Jane’s closet, he kept trophies from all of his victims as Red John.” Ardiles had explained, as he had pointed at the television, where a picture of the so-called trophies lit up the screen. From where Jane had sat at the defendent table, he had only been able to make out some of the items displayed on the screen: a silver CBI badge, a Ziploc bag of red hair, a laptop, a gun, a knife and something purple. “Within the safe, the Sacramento Police found Wayne Rigsby’s badge, Teresa Lisbon’s service weapon, Grace Van Pelt’s red hair and purple headband, a knife stained with Grace Van Pelt’s and Kayla Rivet’s blood, the laptop used to blow up Kimball Cho and Summer Edgecombe and various other items that tie Mr. Jane to being Red John.”_

He had never seen any of those items before, not that the jury would have believed him, but still.

 

Susan Darcy and Luther Wainwright sat on the far left side of the courtroom; Darcy had her mouth moving to Wainwright, who nodded at whatever she saying with a smile. Like Gale Bertram, Darcy and Wainwright had been constants at his trial for months and Jane found their _flirtation_ (if that’s what they were doing could be called) odd. Wainwright was far too young for Darcy, as he was only twelve-years-old and had probably never slept with a woman before. Darcy was far too old for Wainwright, as she had only apparently bedded murderers.

 

The guard led him to his seat at the defendant table, before the judge stepped into the room.

 

            “Please rise for the honorable Judge Dallas, presiding.” 

 

Jane stood from his seat, as he heard everybody around him doing the same.

 

            “Be seated.” Judge Dallas said and Jane took his seat in silence, as he waited for the judge to speak again. “Mr. Ardiles, you may begin.”

 

            “Thank you, your honor.” Ardiles replied, as he stood from the prosecutor’s table and stepped to the jury’s box. “Patrick Jane has stood in front of a countless number of judges and juries in his career as a CBI consultant.” Ardiles started, after a few moments of silence. “He uses his charm and powers of persuasion to convince them all that a killer should be thrown into our prisons and let’s face it, he seemed to be right.” Jane tried to restrain his smile at Ardiles’ comment; whether the man hated him or not, he couldn’t _not_ say that he hadn’t been right. “That in fact, who he had been blaming, _was_ indeed the killer to numerous amounts of cases. _However_ ,” Ardiles turned to stare at Jane. “He was also putting the idea out there that violence and vengeance was an acceptable method of catching these killers.” Ardiles turned back to the jury. “He would preach this to suspects and to the public. He had even preached it to a jury, just like you. When, in fact, he was on trial for murder, for the first time.” Jane continued to stare.

 

Sure, his method of catching killers hadn’t always been _good_ for the bureau, but it had always produced results. Wainwright and Darcy hadn’t been complaining when he had caught SJK or when he had helped them solve high profile cases; he figured though, that when _he_ was the prime suspect in the Red John case, complaints had to come forward from _all_ branches of law enforcement. 

 

            “Although, how could anybody truly blame him for feeling the way he does?” Ardiles continued. “How could anyone blame him for preaching vengeance, when his own wife and child had been brutally murdered by the serial killer, Red John?” Ardiles paused for a moment. “No matter how you may feel about this man, nobody deserves that. _Nobody_ deserves murder.”

 

And yet they were putting him on trial for _murder_? How ironic.

 

            “But it seems that _every single time_ this man,” Ardiles gestured toward Jane, “opens his mouth, a new kind of trouble heads his way. Whether that would be on national television, when he spoke out against the serial killer, who had ultimately killed his family or when he is solving a case, insulting people just because he had a _hunch_.”

 

His hunches _had_ solved murder cases, whether Ardiles had wanted to admit that or not to the jurors.

 

            “You would think that Mr. Jane would learn something from all of this, really.” Ardiles said. “That he would stop opening his mouth and actually think, but no, _instead_ , Mr. Jane goes around and continuously mocks our justice system; he taunts suspects, breaks into their homes, and uses illegal methods in order to get a confession.” Ardiles paused again. “Those illegal methods end up sending a killer back onto the streets, because Mr. Jane just couldn’t follow the rules.”

 

Jane had gotten evidence thrown out of a case _once_ ; and it had only been because the law had busted him.

 

            “So, once again, here we all are.” Ardiles went on. “In a courtroom, with you—the jury, who have heard all about the numerous crimes that were committed by Mr. Jane. The _same_ jury, who have been shown the forensic evidence linking him to all of these crimes; evidence that linked him to the brutal murders of both a Confidential Informant for the CBI and for Special Agent Wayne Rigsby, who were of no threat to anyone else, but to Mr. Jane and his agenda.” Jane nearly scoffed, but he kept quiet and still. “Mr. Jane, as you have also seen, is linked to the bombing that paralyzed Special Agent Kimball Cho from the waist down and lastly, you heard the testimonies from Special Agent Grace Van Pelt and Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon, who have both admitted to being raped by Mr. Jane _after_ Wayne Rigsby’s death.”  Ardiles turned toward him again. “And that serial killer Red John that was mentioned mere moments ago? Well, Mr. Jane is being charged for those crimes, as well.”

 

 _I never killed my wife and daughter_ , Jane thought, _I’ve only killed two others. This is wrong._

            “You have also seen the evidence that _tells_ us that Mr. Jane is, in fact, the serial killer that he has been chasing all of these years.” Ardiles gestured toward the television screen, which displayed a picture of Red John’s smiley face. “Mr. Jane has been like a dog, chasing his own tail.”

 

No, he had been chasing after the _actual_ Red John. He hadn’t been chasing after himself, the CBI’s scapegoat.

 

            “Mr. Jane has had plenty of help during his career as Red John, from Dumar Hardy to Lorelei Martins, who stated that Mr. Jane killed all of his associates, but why should we take the risk of Mr. Jane making more?” Ardiles asked. “Why second-guess yourselves? Why would _anyone_ want to take the chance of putting a well-known serial killer back onto the streets?” 

 

Jane scanned the faces of the individuals on the jury, to find that all twelve of them were drawn into Ardiles’ speech, which didn’t surprise him. Osvaldo Ardiles _knew_ how to appeal to people, because he _was_ a good lawyer.

 

            “You would think, given his long list of offenses, that Mr. Jane might have used the insanity plea, in order to, _once again_ , get off on yet another murder charge.” Jane watched some of the juror’s heads bob up and down. “But, you have heard from expert testimony that Mr. Jane is, in fact, both sane and completely aware of his mental state. You have also heard from several other witnesses that Mr. Jane _is_ capable of all that he has done; those testimonies gave away to the fact that Mr. Jane was consumed with his need for vengeance and that he will and has gone to extreme lengths in order to get what he desires the most.” Ardiles paused to glance at Jane. “Revenge.”

           

After another pause, Ardiles continued. “Now, you might be thinking, how did anybody not see this coming? How could no one figure out that Mr. Jane might just be the serial killer that they had been chasing for years?”  Jane watched Ardiles shrug his shoulders. “What prevented the Serious Crimes Unit from ever questioning Mr. Jane?” Ardiles shrugged his shoulders again, before he focused his attention back onto the jury. “You see, I asked myself all of these same questions, and when I asked Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon if she had investigated Mr. Jane for being the serial killer, she had told me, “No.”.”

 

Jane resisted his urge to look back at Lisbon, just to see how she was taking Ardiles’ hit again.

 

            “She was his supervising agent _for_ years. She was by his side for all of that time and she notices nothing? How in the world is that even possible?” Ardiles asked the jury. “Because she was so blinded by her child-like crush on the consultant, which then, had turned into a heated affair.” Ardiles took another pause. “And _because_ , she was so blinded by her infatuation for Mr. Jane, she was unable to protect her team; she was unable to save countless lives from being lost. So what did she do instead?” Ardiles glanced out into the viewing gallery and Jane was sure the man had found Lisbon with his eyes. “She thought that getting her _urges_ satisfied were much more important than investigating the Red John case or protecting her people, that when finally FBI Special Agent Susan Darcy caught Red John, Agent Lisbon cried wolf about being raped to keep her job.”  He gaped at Ardiles. “So, as a result of poor supervision and a lack of discipline on both parts, Mr. Jane is here today because he finally became _too_ careless as Red John. Whether it was because of his illicit affair with Agent Lisbon or just his lack of forethought, Mr. Jane sits before us.”  Ardiles became quiet for a moment. “You’ve seen the evidence, you’ve heard the witnesses testify, you have heard the stories from both parties and _all of it_ comes back to Mr. Jane.” Ardiles turned to face him. “You’ve all been told that he is sane. Don’t let Mr. Jane sway you with his sugarcoated words or fool you with his smile because, for once, Mr. Jane is wrong.”

 

            “Mr. Jane.” Judge Dallas stated, after Ardiles had sat back down at the prosecutor’s table. Jane drew in a deep breath, stood from his seat, before he moved toward the jury, and glanced at them all.

 

In their minds, he knew he was guilty. Ardiles had delivered one hell of a speech and even _if_ Jane could top it (which was doubtful), he knew he was still spending his entire life behind bars.

 

Jane cleared his throat and started his defense. “In the time that I have been working with the CBI, I have had one goal in mind.” He continued to stare at the jurors. “To catch the serial killer, Red John, who murdered my beloved wife and child.” Nobody made a movement and he continued. “You may have seen a few years ago that I had killed a man, who I had believed to be the serial killer, Red John? He told me his name, that he had a family, and that he was, in fact, Red John. I believed him. I shot him in the chest and I watched him _die_.” One of the jurors flinched. “I was arrested and put into a cell, shortly afterwards, and about two weeks into my holding, I realized that I had killed the wrong man. I had killed a semi-innocent man, who had still been a horrible person all together.” Jane took a brief pause. “In the end, my team and I had discovered that Timothy Carter and Sally Carter, his wife, had kidnapped a girl; the duo had locked her up in their basement, while Timothy Carter had joined the search to find her.” Timothy Carter _had_ been a bad man, whether anybody had wanted to believe that or not. Jane knew now, he wasn’t Red John, but back then; it hadn’t mattered. Vengeance had clouded his mind. “The man I killed was a semi-innocent man and so am I. I, admittedly, _have_ done some terrible things, but who hasn’t?” Jane asked the jury. “I got my wife and child killed because of _my_ need for the spotlight and I have been on a quest for vengeance, because of _that_ night.” Jane lowered his voice. “I have been searching for a killer that has gone untouched by the best of law enforcement; I have heard Red John’s voice, I have talked to him or them through various unknown sources, and he has been my demon ever since.”

 

Jane realized he couldn’t exonerate himself having raped Lisbon or Grace. He realized he couldn’t exonerate himself for having killed Summer or Rigsby. He realized he couldn’t exonerate himself for having almost killed Cho. But he _could_ try and exonerate himself of being Red John.

 

The jury had to listen to reason, after all, didn’t they?

 

            “He still is now, but what the prosecution has told you, is that I _am_ the serial killer. That I have been chasing myself for all of those years, but the thing is.” Jane paused again. “I don’t remember any of it.” Jane shook his head, slowly. He wasn’t going to win this. “The prosecution has handed you all of the evidence and has provided you with every reason to convict me and as a jury, you have an honor to uphold the law.”

 

He heard someone gasp from the viewing gallery, but Jane didn’t turn to face them.

 

            “And by all means, please do so.” Jane continued, as he sent one final pleading look toward all of the jurors. “And if that means you must sentence me to a life in prison? Then so be it.”

 

Jane stepped back from the jury; he had hope that the jury wouldn't convict him of life behind bars.

* * *

 

            _“We the jury, find you, the defendant, Patrick Jane…”_


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading and commenting! :D

**21—**

****

With his arms under his head, Jane remained on his prison-issued cot and stared up at the peeling white ceiling in near silence. Over the past four years, he had gotten used to blocking out the hustle and bustle of prison life but it didn’t mean he was going to miss any of it. In the beginning of his stay on death row three years ago, just shortly after the verdict had been handed down by a jury of his _peers_ , he had hated the lack of privacy.

 

Within his cell at the Sacramento County Jailhouse for nine months, he had been given a semblance of privacy; his murderous cellmate had left him alone for the most part, some of the inmates had kept a wide berth after hearing that he was the infamous Red John, and his every motion hadn’t been tracked by a video camera installed into his cell. Jane had been allowed to interact with the other inmates, eat in the cafeteria three times a day and feel the warmth of the Californian sunshine against his face every so often.

 

Compared to where he was now though, the Sacramento County Jailhouse had been a piece of freedom that he would never again have.

 

San Quentin State Prison, his ‘home’ of three years, had not given him an ounce of privacy; he had no cellmate, and it seemed that every hour (give or take a few minutes) one of the guards came by to check if he was still alive. According to one of the gruff guards on his cellblock, the waiting alone drove some inmates to suicide and up until a few hours ago, his every movement had been tracked via security camera.

 

But now, three guards just lingered outside of his final home. Jane could tell that they all viewed him differently, which didn’t surprise him at all. One of them pitied him; one of them didn’t know what to think, while the other just hated him for having killed a fellow officer of the law. He had gotten quite used to the slurs from some of the other officers on his previous cellblock for all of the crimes he had supposedly committed, he had also gotten used to the quiet stares of sadness and the unasked but always lingering question of _why_ he had done it.

 

Of course, Jane had never been able to answer the _why_ to anyone; not the media that continued to hound him for interviews, not the admirers who wrote him countless letter after letter claiming to be his accomplices, not the families of the victims who had sent him various death threats, not Susan Darcy, not Osvaldo Ardiles, not Grace Van Pelt, Sarah Harrigan or Kimball Cho, not himself or Teresa Lisbon…

 

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Lisbon, especially not as he was waiting for the guards to bring him his final change of clothing and lead him from the holding cell, only to strap him to the execution gurney.

 

Jane had never been afraid of death; he had strolled into hostage situations, gotten himself almost drowned by an overzealous killer, been held at gunpoint and knifepoint enough times to realize that he could die tomorrow and he would be perfectly okay with that (if they found Red John first, of course).

 

Out of the dozen or more times that he had been prepared to die and after waiting three years for the death sentence to be handed down, Jane just didn’t _want_ to die.

 

If Jane stayed on death row, he had nothing to look forward to: with three warm meals a day, the lack of privacy, a shower every other day, and only his darkening thoughts to keep him company, Jane couldn’t exactly pretend that San Quentin was a prime spot to take a vacation. He had also given up on the hope of ever seeing or feeling sunshine on his skin again, as the only sunshine he had been privy to seeing over the past three years had been either on the television in the recreation room or in the Sacramento newspaper that he continued to have delivered every morning to his cell.

 

Even after all of that though, he had never given up on the hope of making everything right. He had continued to tell himself that _tomorrow_ somebody would visit him or _tomorrow_ somebody would finally realize that he had been telling the complete truth and that he had somehow been set up by Red John. But _tomorrow_ never came. He had never had visitors (aside from the media, who he rejected time and time again for interviews) and because he was set to be executed shortly, he would die as a guilty man in the eyes of everyone he had once called _friend_.

 

Jane licked his dry lips in absentmindedness. Shortly after the death warrant had been signed, the Warden of the prison had visited. Warden Glass had asked him several questions pertaining to what was going to happen shortly: _How do you want to be executed? What do you want for your last meal? Do you want any special visitors on that day? Do you want to visit the chaplain prior to your execution? Who would you like me to invite to your execution?_

 

He had almost laughed at the absurdity of the questions. How could anybody chose how they wanted to die? Jane had remembered quietly thinking, as the Warden had stared on with a pencil in his hand. The state of California allowed for their death row inmates to choose their own method of execution; Jane had been told he could either be strapped into an airtight chamber and suffocate to death due to the gases being released (the gas chamber) or he could be strapped onto a gurney and die from the cocktail of chemicals being pumped into his veins (lethal injection).

 

_“You’re lucky to have the choices you do, Mr. Jane.”_ One of the more respectable guards had told him, after he had been moved to his new “death watch” cell. Jane hadn’t seen how, until the guard had explained that some states had other methods than just the gas chamber or lethal injection to pick from. _“You could be electrocuted, hanged or even shot to death.”_ He didn’t want to imagine having volts of electricity pumped through him, the feel of a rope around his neck or the holes that he would have been riddled with if California allowed a firing squad.

 

The Warden had waited rather impatiently for his decision, which hadn’t surprised Jane at all. If the decision had been left up to Warden Derrick Glass, the man would have chosen the gas chamber; the most excruciating way to die, just because he had been housing a _rapist_ on his death row for much longer than he thought necessary. Not that it had been Jane’s fault that he had to stick around the prison for twenty-four hours a day and spend twenty-three of those hours in a small cramped cell, until the Governor of California could finally get around to signing his execution warrant.

 

After being denied freedom for three years, making his _own_ decision had felt almost foreign; the guards had always given him the standard prison uniform to wear, they had always brought him the poor quality food, told when he could take his five minute shoulder or when he could spend an hour in the recreation room. And yet, there had sat the impatient warden asking him what _he_ wanted for the first time in years.

 

It had been surreal.

 

In the end though, Jane had decided upon lethal injection. He hadn’t picked the method because it would be _less_ painful; he had picked it so he could be selfish and get one final glimpse of Lisbon before he was put to death. The gas chamber would have for allowed for him to have _many_ glimpses of her, but he didn’t want her last memory of him to be tainted with the image of him being in pain. The Lisbon he had known (and had loved) would have never wanted to see the person she had once loved in pain; regardless of how she had practically sent him to his death, he had always wondered if Lisbon thought of him like he often thought of her.

 

When he thought of her, Jane refused to remember the last time that he had seen her. Instead with a small smile, he fondly remembered all of the times that had shared while working together. The origami frog that he had made for her, the feel of her face when she smiled, the trust fall that they had shared, the smile on her face at the pony he had bought her, the warmth of her slender body pressed against his, the trust that she had given him to hypnotize her, the cranberry muffin that she had brought him in jail, the dance they had shared to _More Than Words_ , the crate that they had both been trapped together in until the little boy and his goat had rescued them, and the many more memories of Teresa Lisbon and her beautiful smile.

 

Of course, remembering all of that pained him. Her last words to him refused to leave and sometimes, especially when he heard those words over their happier memories together, he wished that the warden would have just _given_ him something to hurry the process of dying along.

 

_But that’s the point of being on death row_ , Jane thought, _to make you regret everything you’ve ever done._

 

And over the past three years, he had regretted _everything_.

 

His quest to catch and kill Red John had destroyed his relationship with Lisbon long before he had been thrown in prison and Red John, in turn, had destroyed Lisbon using him. Even after all of that time in prison though, Jane still hadn’t been able to figure out how exactly Red John had done it all and he doubted that death would bring him further clarity into the mind of the serial killer who had won.

 

His pretending to be a psychic had almost ruined his marriage with Angela long before he had started to see her as a beloved wife and Red John had killed his beautiful wife and child because of him. Jane had driven his wife away with cold words and stupid actions and he had lost her, before he had realized what a fool he had been.

 

But even if he did regret everything he had ever done, including the actions of the things he had been blamed for, he knew it would never bring Charlotte or Angela back. His regretting wouldn’t even bring the team or Lisbon back to him again.

 

Jane could say sorry and sorry over again, but it wouldn’t fix what his quest for revenge had broken; Lisbon, a prime example of the fact, hadn’t replied to a single letter of apology he had sent her. Not a single letter had come back to him either. That knowledge alone had filled him with a small sense of hope that maybe Lisbon had been reading his letters (wherever she was, as he doubted the woman had stuck around in Sacramento after his trial) and had been trying to exonerate him, but because Red John would have left no trail in his wake; Lisbon hadn’t wanted to reply to him, so she didn’t disappoint him with false hopes.

 

            _‘Nothing you do would disappoint me, Teresa.’_ Jane had written to her, days after he had learned when he was being sentenced to death. _‘It’s not your fault that you couldn’t see through Red John’s games. It’s not your fault he raped you or Grace. It’s not your fault Rigsby is dead; how were you to know he worked for Red John? I didn’t even know. I don’t know if you’ve been told yet, but I’m being executed on Thursday. You’re more than welcome to come.’_

 

He could deal with his crappy last meal of tea the guards had brought him, he could deal with having no visitors for three years straight, he could deal with going through holidays and birthdays of nothing but hate mail and he could deal with the feeling of always being alone, if he had one final chance to say _sorry_ directly to Lisbon and the others he had hurt along the way in his quest. It wouldn’t save him from being executed, but maybe it would push Lisbon into finally discovering the truth and eventually letting the world know that he had died an innocent man.

 

Hope was something that most expected to die stuck inside prison walls, as how could anyone continue to thrive on their hopes and wishes after being thrown in a cage, yet Jane had never stopped hoping. Lisbon had saved his life time after time and until he took his last breath and witnessed it with his own eyes, he would continue to hope and believe that she knew him better than that. That she knew there was no way he would willingly hurt her or her team; especially after all they had gone through together. That the real Red John wasn’t behind bars, but biding his time until he had both Lisbon and Grace right where he wanted them again; on their knees, submitting themselves to his silent reign of terror.

 

            _‘Red John is still out there, Teresa. He’ll come back for you and for Grace.’_ Jane had written. _‘Just because he hasn’t killed since I was thrown in prison, doesn’t mean you’re both safe or free of him. Warn her for me, as a last request. That’s all I ask of you.’_

 

And out of everything he could have asked for her to do, Jane only wanted her to stay safe and be happy; and if his death brought that, then so be it. But he didn’t want her to be lulled into thinking everything would be okay, just because they had caught the man who they had all thought was Red John.

 

With his eyes still closed, he heard the sound of brisk footsteps echoing down the adjacent hallway and Jane knew it was almost time for his execution. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment longer, before he pulled himself into a sitting position on the cot and waited for the Warden in silence.

 

            “How is he doing?” Jane heard the Warden ask one of his men in the hallway. He doubted the Warden really cared about how he was doing, but for the sake of his job, Warden Glass had to inquire anyway. “I figured as much. Let’s get this over with then.”

 

Moments later, Warden Glass came into his vision with a bundle of blue in his arms and Jane continued to stare. The Warden with his neatly kept uniform and short gray hair hadn’t changed much in the past three years and Jane couldn’t help but smile at him. In the man’s arms sat the last pair of new clothes that Jane would ever have the pleasure of wearing again, unless the execution was halted at the last minute; a new pair of denim pants and a light blue collared shirt.

 

The Warden motioned for one of the guards to open the cell. “Well, Mr. Jane.”

 

            “Warden Glass.”

 

Warden Glass sighed, as he entered the cell. “We both know that my name isn’t Warden Glass; it’s...”

 

            “I haven’t been right about your name in three years, Warden.” Jane interrupted. “Do you really think I’m going to get it right now?” The Warden shook his head, while Jane continued to grin. When Warden Glass had first introduced himself years ago, Jane had labeled the man as easily shattered and transparent much like a fragile window of glass.

 

The Warden had eventually proved his label wrong, but by then, the name had already stuck.

 

            “You’ll want to change.” Warden Glass directed, as he handed the bundle of clothing over. Jane nodded and stared to unbutton the sweat-stained light blue collared shirt that clung to his skin with his fingers. He felt a little uncomfortable with the Warden standing a mere foot away from him, but prison didn’t allow for privacy and just because he was being executed didn’t mean that the Warden trusted him to not escape from the cell. Jane stood from his cot and pulled his old denim pants off. The last inmate that had been executed, Clint Williams, had almost apparently taken the Warden’s face off with the handcuffs that he had been restrained in. “Put your old clothes on the bed, Mr. Jane. We’re not ready for you quite yet.”

 

Jane nodded again and did as he was instructed, before he sat back down on the edge of the cot. If he had been a religious man, he would have prayed for a stay of execution. If he had been a religious man, he would have prayed for more time to make things right. But he had never been a religious man. He was just a man, who had lost everything in his quest to make things right. He was just a man, who had lost the continuous game against Red John. And in the end, he was just a man who had to suffer the consequences of that lost game and a man, who had to die because of it.

 

            “Do you have any final requests, Mr. Jane?” The Warden interrupted his thoughts and Jane glanced up at him in confusion. “In the thirty years I’ve been doing this job and in the ten prisoners I’ve watched being executed, I have always tried to ask each individual if they have something that they would like for me to tell a loved one…”

 

            “My wife and child are dead, Warden.” Jane replied, his throat tight. “I somehow doubt your message would get to them, even if I told you it.” The Warden nodded, solemnly.

 

            “I see.” Jane stared at the Warden, who had crossed his arms against his chest. Would it do any harm if he gave a message to Lisbon through the Warden? He could something short and sweet: _be safe, Teresa_. Or he could say the words that he had bounced around in his head days ago, when he had written her a final letter: _love you_.

 

Jane opened his mouth to tell the Warden he had a final request, when Warden Glass looked down at his wristwatch and cleared his throat. “Come on, Mr. Jane. It’s time.”

 

He closed his mouth. He’d take the _love you_ and _be safe, Teresa_ to his grave, alongside the wedding ring that he still wore. Jane stood from his cot and allowed for the Warden to handcuff him one final time. Jane stood between the three guards, as the Warden led him from the cell and motioned for everyone to follow him down the bare hallway and into the execution chamber.

 

            “Stay still.” The Warden ordered, as he unlocked the handcuffs and Jane took the moment of silence to glance around the room that he had only heard stories of. The walls had been painted white, a light blue curtain hung against the opposite wall from where his final resting spot would be, a simple black clock set above an open window and two medical tables filled with the objects for the procedure remained next to the green gurney. “Get him ready.”

 

            “Yes, sir.” One of the guards answered and Jane was pushed to the gurney, where he was restrained by the black straps that made it impossible to move. The setup almost reminded him of his stay in the psychiatric hospital with Sophie Miller years ago and he couldn’t help but smile wistfully; he had first been given restraints before he had started his quest for Red John and now, he had restraints before he ended his quest for Red John. It was befitting really and Jane hated Red John for it even more.

 

Jane said nothing, as he felt someone unbutton a few buttons on his shirt and place something cold against his chest. He figured it was a heart monitor, as how else could the staff tell he was dead and not just pretending? Someone’s hand went to his restrained arm and he felt a tight tourniquet wrap around his upper arm, before he also felt something cold brushing against the nook of his elbow.

 

            “We’re ready here.” The person above him said and moments later, he felt the needles being slid into his veins without a flinch. “Raise him up.” The gurney started to rise and abruptly stopped to where Jane faced the curtain, before one of the guards pulled the light blue curtain from the windows.

 

There were six windows in total, which held three different rooms.

 

One of them, he noticed, was empty. _The room for family_.

 

The other single window, he also noticed, seemed full of bright lights and individuals dressed in monkey suits. _The room for the media._

 

And the last four windows, which sat directly in front of him, had been filled with the familiar faces of the people he had gotten to know while working at the CBI. _The room for the victims._

Somewhere within the room, Warden Glass cleared his throat and Jane ignored whatever the man had to say, as he focused his complete attention on the individuals who stood and sat behind the glass window.

 

Jane started with the individuals standing against the white back wall.

 

Susan Darcy met his gaze first with a cold stare; the former FBI Agent looked no different than she had three years ago on the stand. She was still uptight (she had her arms crossed against her chest), but the promotion had treated her kindly. Jane had caught something in the newspaper about Susan Darcy being promoted to the head of the FBI after he had been thrown on death row and honestly, he was just surprised she hadn’t been killed on the job yet.

 

Next to her stood Gale Bertram, the retired Director of the CBI, with a small smirk across his face and his arms crossed his chest. Of course, the cocky bastard would be happy. Quite frankly, the man had never liked him (though, Jane hadn’t liked him either) and his death was probably the best thing that had happened to Bertram all year.

 

Luther Wainwright caught his attention next, the former Special-Agent-in-Charge of the CBI, who still hadn’t lost the twelve-year-old look. The Agent had apparently been promoted to head of the Sacramento Police Deparment (as the CBI had closed down, almost a year after the Red John scandal had unfolded) and aside from the crossing of his arms; Jane could really see no change. Luther was still a momma’s boy, big boy pants on or not.

 

Osvaldo Ardiles was the last man against the back wall, the District Attorney who had prosecuted him. Ardiles continued to stare at him and Jane wondered why the man wasn’t grinning. Ardiles had always disliked him and Lisbon’s team for their disobedience of the justice system, but the lack of any emotion on his face made Jane wonder if the man disagreed with the death penalty. If he had though, it wouldn’t have surprised Jane; Ardiles, out of the three others, had always been more willing to look for the alternatives. But the District Attorney’s office hadn’t allowed for him to charge anything less than the death penalty and Ardiles, a good boy in both the law and his work, had done exactly what his bosses had told him to do.

 

            “…and responsibility vested in me by the Constitution and Laws of California…” Jane vaguely heard Warden Glass saying, as he glanced away from Ardiles and glanced at the familiar individuals, who sat in the front row of the windowed viewing room.

 

Closest to the exit of the spacious room sat Kimball Cho, who still remained in his wheelchair. The stoic former CBI agent hadn’t looked any different either, which made Jane briefly wonder what the man had been doing since the trial. With Summer gone, Jane doubted the man had been actively looking for a love life but who knew? Cho had never said anything to them after he had ended his relationship with Elise, but back then, Jane had been able to read his fellow co-workers within just moments of seeing them.

 

Cho also had one of his hands in his lap, while his other hand was attached to Grace’s. The man had never been one of show emotion before, which made Jane wonder if something a little bit more than friendship was going on between the two ex-CBI agents; it wouldn’t have surprised him if there was though. Cho had lost Summer, Grace had lost Rigsby and their friendship was probably the only thing that they had left.

 

Next to Cho, of course, sat Grace Van Pelt who clutched at his hand, as she tried to keep her eyes focused straight ahead on him without fear. The lovely and youthful Grace hadn’t changed too much from the trial either; the exhaustion still clung to her (the way she kept blinking gave her exhaustion away somewhat, as did her lank red hair), but Jane could tell that the single mother had gained a bit of weight since he had last seen her.

 

He wondered if her weight gain had anything to do with her new job, as the last he had heard, nobody had kept their jobs within the Serious Crimes Unit after the trial. Jane couldn’t figure out what new career path that she had chosen for herself, but whatever it was, he could tell it wasn’t making her happy and he only hoped she wasn’t doing anything heedless. Grace had never been the type of person to do anything that compromised her morals, but a person standing so close to the edge was easy to tempt.

 

Jane watched Grace’s thin mouth move and he glanced away. He had no desire to read her lips, as he had a pretty good feeling that whatever she was saying (from the darkened expression on Cho’s face) wasn’t something cordial.

 

To the left of Grace sat Sarah Harrigan, Rigsby’s former girlfriend, who held onto Grace’s other hand tightly. Aside from the close friendship Sarah and Grace seemed to share (both of them were single mothers, after all), the slender and short brunette didn’t appear any different from when he had last seen her three years ago. Sarah stared him down and he fixed his gaze away from her. Red John had stolen her boyfriend (fiancé, if Sarah would have said yes to Rigsby’s marriage proposal) and that was his fault. He should have realized that Rigsby had formed some type of a twisted kinship with the serial killer, especially as the good-hearted former CBI agent had a son to think about and Red John had haunted every corner of their lives.

 

But why wasn’t Lisbon clutching Grace’s hand? Jane had wanted to know. He had nothing against Sarah (even if she was a lawyer) or Sarah’s friendship with Grace, but he had never pictured Sarah and Grace sitting together.

 

He had always imagined seeing the three (Grace, Cho and Lisbon) sitting together at his execution to show _him_ that he hadn’t ruined their friendship and the image of their entwined hands, as they all waited together would have filled him with the knowledge that Red John hadn’t won at everything. That Red John’s plan (if it had been to destroy the relationships within the Serious Crimes Unit, along with him) had ultimately failed, because the team had more loyalty to one another than Red John had ever thought to be possible.

 

Jane frowned. When Lisbon hadn’t been sitting with Cho or Grace during the trial, Jane had just thought that Ardiles had separated the three of them within the courtroom to make the case against him look stronger; not that one of them (Lisbon) had felt the need to sit alone and sit in the back of the courtroom because Cho and Grace had refused to associate with her after he had been arrested.

 

It hadn’t been Lisbon’s fault that Cho had been blown up. It hadn’t been Lisbon’s fault that Grace had gotten raped. It had been Red John’s fault that everything had fallen apart before their eyes. 

 

            “…in accord with the provisions of the laws of the State of California…” The Warden continued on. Jane ignored his reading voice again, as he tried to figure out the confusing puzzle set before him. Why had Sarah gotten so much closer to Grace, if Lisbon and Grace had practically gone through the same thing together? Wasn’t there some addendum about how birds of the same feather flocked together? He continued to stare at Sarah in confusion. By all means, Sarah and Grace shouldn’t have become friends.

 

Grace had been the first woman Rigsby had fallen in love with, which had made Sarah somewhat jealous when Rigsby had been alive. But maybe, the mutual loss had brought them closer together in some odd fashion (not to mention that they both had young children, under the age of six-years-old) and Lisbon just couldn’t sympathize with Grace in that way.

 

He blinked in surprise. His own reasoning sounded good, but that still didn’t explain _why_ Lisbon wasn’t in the room with them. It hadn’t escaped Jane’s notice that there were only seven individuals in the viewing room and not eight. Had Lisbon not come because they hadn’t allowed her into the room?

 

Wainwright and Darcy probably had the authority to block witnesses from viewing executions, as they both held high positions within law enforcement. And if Lisbon didn’t think he was guilty anymore, they’d have plenty of reasons to keep her out. His heart swelled with hope at the idea. Had the countless letters that he had sent her finally gotten through to her?

 

Jane couldn’t hide his bright smile, as he scanned the individuals within the viewing room again; all of them looked visually disturbed at his smile, but he didn’t care what they thought.

 

Someone, after four years, had finally believed him.

 

_Teresa Lisbon_ , after four years, had finally believed him.

 

Still grinning, he briefly caught Grace’s eyes with his own, before he watched the young woman burst into a frenzy of tears. Jane couldn’t hear her cries or whatever was being said behind the glass to calm her down, but eventually, the ex-agent had calmed down enough to where Cho could place his arm behind her shoulders and hold her close.

 

            “The Governor has given us the green light on his execution, even though we don’t have enough witnesses.” Someone said from behind his head and Jane almost laughed. There were a set number of witnesses allowed into witnessing an execution? He wondered who had made that a law, considering it made no logical sense.

 

            “Director Wainwright said he tried to get one more person to come, but she refused.” Someone else replied. “Apparently, her husband needed her to take care of the children.”

 

Jane lost his smile. _Husband? Children?_

Nobody on the Serious Crimes Unit had a husband and the only two individuals who had children were Rigsby (who was now dead) and Grace (who was sitting in the room before him), which meant only one thing.

 

The _she_ they had been talking about was Lisbon.

 

His heart broke within his chest at the realization.

 

_Lisbon_ hadn’t been kept out from witnessing his execution; she had just decided not to come.

 

_Lisbon_ had gotten married and had moved on with her life, while he had remained sealed behind bars for _four years_ for crimes that he hadn’t even committed.

 

_Lisbon_ hadn’t been trying to prove his innocence in her absence; she had been trying to erase him completely from her life.

 

            “Any last words?” Warden Glass asked and Jane remained silent, as he leveled them all with one final stare.

 

How he could say sorry to any of them? None of them had believed him. None of them had visited him. None of them had tried to stop the death penalty. All of them had been so caught up in _believing_ that they had seen him, that he had done all of those crimes to them, that they had blatantly ignored _years_ of friendship, triumphs and failures that they had all gone through together within the Serious Crimes Unit.

 

How could he apologize, especially when Lisbon had clearly thrown him aside for her new life? For her new husband? For her new home? For her children? What had happened to all of the years between them? He had saved her life, he had made her smile and her gift to him was one giant knife in the back?

 

_I hope Red John gets her_ , Jane thought bitterly, before he heard the Warden give the vocal signal to start the execution and he closed his eyes.

 

Death had to be better than this. 


End file.
